Cancer in the Soul
by JamesLuver
Summary: S5 speculation. Anna's world is rocked again by devastating news. Things only get worse when she overhears a conversation between Lady Mary and Mrs. Hughes about John's fabled visit to York. With doubts festering in her mind for the first time, she sets out to discover if her husband is really capable of murder. In turn, can she allow him to support her through her own struggles?
1. Dead Yesterday, Bleeding Tomorrow

**A/N:** My contribution to the Banna Celebration on Tumblr, with the question of what secrets Anna and John could be keeping from one another. I suspect that it will be "the identity of the attacker"/"the truth about London", but I decided to change it up a little anyway. I'm not very confident writing series four stuff, so I hope this is okay overall. The last thing I want to do is offend someone.

**Disclaimer:** I don't own _Downton Abbey_.

* * *

_Lies and secrets, Tessa, they are like a cancer in the soul. They eat away what is good and leave only destruction behind_ – Cassandra Clare, _Clockwork Prince_

* * *

_Cancer in the Soul_

_1. Dead Yesterday, Bleeding Tomorrow_

Life is a new kind of normal. Certainly not as good as it had been at one point…but Anna is slowly understanding that she can deal with it. She still has John by her side. The things that she has been through – that they have _both _been through – can never be altered, but she is beginning to realise that the only revenge is learning to live more than a half-life in the shadows of the memories that they'd once made.

It is a work in progress. Some days she can't shift her black mood no matter what she tries to focus on, and he is prone to withdrawing in on himself if he thinks that she won't notice. She wonders what dark paths he is traversing in those moments, but she never feels brave enough to ask. A small voice whispers if she really wants to know.

But they have made progress, despite everything. There are periods where she can laugh freely and not remember, moments where she does not feel guilty for revelling in the joy of her husband's smile. They have always been a rarity, but now they are even more so; a fleeting flash of sunlight in the bleakness of winter. There are moments when their minds forget enough to bring them closer in other ways; nights spent making love under soft candlelight, his hands playing a pleasurable melody over her body that she'd been sure at one time that she had forgotten how to sing. Moments in the tender afterglow where she burrows against his side, breathing in the sweet smell of sweat and sex, the both of them open and vulnerable and, most importantly, whole. Scarred. Cracked with thin fissures. But still whole. Somehow.

In the present, Anna watches her husband sleeping. He looks so much younger in these moments, unburdened by the things that usually haunted him, the lines smoothed from his face. Carefully, afraid that she will disturb him, she sweeps a few stray locks of his hair away from his face. They only fall stubbornly back into place. She suppresses a smile even as her heart swells. She enjoys seeing him like this, suitably dishevelled and relaxed in his own home. Peaceful. She doesn't think he's been truly been at peace here since that awful night. But mornings like this at least give the illusion.

Not for long.

"How long have you been watching me?"

John's sleep-gruff voice breaks through her thoughts, and she glances down to find him just blinking open sleepy eyes. She shifts closer to press a chaste kiss to his mouth, unable to resist running her fingers through his locks one more time.

"Not long," she says. "I'm starting to see what you see in watching _me_ sleep. You were rather adorable."

"I'm sure," he grimaces, sitting up. "Although I don't think there's much competition between us. You would win hands down, my darling."

She reclines back against the pillows as he slides to the edge of the bed, slipping out and padding across the room on bare feet. He fishes his clothes out of the wardrobe. She tempers down the low simmer that she feels in the pit of her stomach at the brief flash of his chest as he pulls off his pyjama top. The intimate part of their life is still something that they are adjusting to.

"Is there anything in particular that you want to do today?" he asks her, voice muffled by his shirt as he pops his head through the neck.

Shaking her head as she slips out of bed too, she says, "No, not really. I need to pop into the village on an errand or two, but then I'm open to ideas."

"A picnic, perhaps?" he ventures. "The weather is still nice enough for one. We could pick some things up in the village and head off from there. I'm sure Mrs. Patmore could sort us out with some sandwiches, and I'll get the cakes."

"All right," Anna agrees. "But I'll pick the cakes up while I'm in the village. There's no need for both of us to go."

John's voice is suddenly unsure. "Don't you want me to accompany you?" They rarely venture out alone on their half-days.

Anna closes her eyes, pretending to be fiddling with her braid so she doesn't have to look and see the hurt on her husband's face. "I've got a couple of things that I need to sort out alone. You know I love you, John. I'm sorry."

The things she needs to sort out are for a good cause. At least, she thinks they are. When she tells him later, he will understand her desire to go alone. Perhaps he'll be a little disappointed, but he will be very content. He'll forgive her for pushing him away again.

He doesn't speak for a few moments, but she hears all she needed to in the heavy sigh he heaves. She hates hurting him. Some days, she feels that it's all she does. That she gives him the illusion that things can be better before cruelly tearing that away from him.

But this isn't supposed to be like that.

At last he says quietly, "I understand."

She knows he doesn't, not now. But he loves her enough to still give her the space that she needs, and she appreciates that.

"Thank you," she says, turning back to him, hiding his half-hearted smile with a soft kiss. He cups her waist tenderly, moving his lips to her forehead when they part.

She pretends not to notice the way that his lips quiver just slightly against her skin.

* * *

"Anna, dear, are you all right? You've been distracted all morning."

The sound of Mrs. Hughes' voice makes Anna turn. The housekeeper stands in the doorway to her sitting room, worry etched into the lines on her face. It isn't enough that she has John henning at the back of her. She has to deal with those looks from Mrs. Hughes, too, the ones that make her wish that she could just fight off the suffocating shroud that still has her cocooned like a helpless fly within the spider's reach. She knows that Mrs. Hughes means well by her mothering, and as much as she sometimes resents it she appreciates it with everything she has, for she could not have survived the past year and a half without her support, but there are times when she wishes that she could slip off alone without being questioned or followed. Not everything has to lead back to that night.

"I'm all right," she responds. "I've just got a lot to do today before I can leave."

Mrs. Hughes frowns at her. "Are you getting enough sleep? You're looking a little peaky."

There is a chance that she knows just why she looks a little unwell. But she keeps the thought to herself, forces a smile instead. "The past few weeks have been hectic. House parties are always the same."

Just saying the words cool her blood. At one time they had represented fun and excitement, a change of pace. Maids gossiped with the visitors, the footmen showed off, the valets exchanged talks of their experiences.

Last time she had gossiped and laughed and joked around. Last time her world had been torn apart.

She fights down the urge to be sick, pushing those memories away. _Focus on the here and now_, she reminds herself. _Focus on the good._

Good, new memories to replace the ones she'd had, as if the old ones had never existed in the first place.

"Anyway, I must get on," she says. "I've a few errands to run in the village in an hour. I'll see you in time for the dressing gong."

"Very well," says Mrs. Hughes, but she doesn't sound convinced of her charade at all. It won't stop her now. She continues to move down the corridor, heading towards the stairs.

As if moving is the only thing keeping her ahead of the things that haunt her.

* * *

It takes far too little time to complete her errands in the village. They are only a smokescreen for the inevitable, and just like with everything else that she dreads, the time to face it comes far too quickly. She stands outside Doctor Clarkson's office on quivering legs, working up the courage to go inside.

And, alongside the dread, is the tiniest seed of hope, planted there a couple of weeks before. It has been nurtured in the darkness. Perhaps it can now bloom in the sunlight.

She takes a deep breath, pushes her shoulders back, and walks inside.

* * *

The clouds have gathered overhead when she emerges half an hour later. The air is close. A storm is brewing. The perfect reflection of her mood.

She keeps her face down as she hurries through the streets of Downton, hoping that no one will stop her. If they do, they will see into her soul. They'll know.

Through some small mercy, she makes it to the dirt road that leads to the cottages without anyone stopping her. The trees close in overhead. Not a bird cheeps. She is alone. Safe to show her emotions.

The floodgates open, and she bursts into tears. Ugly, heaving sobs tear through her body. Hot tears scald her cheeks. She sinks to the floor, uncaring of the dirt and the things she had gone into the village for, curling her arms around her knees and drawing them up to her chest. If only she could shrink, become invisible. It would surely hurt less than this. In all the months of awful crying, she hasn't cried as hard as this since the weeks following that terrible night.

The terrible night that had changed everything for good. _Everything._

The image of a tiny hand within her own vanishes, a ghostly spectre that had never existed in the first place. She hugs her empty abdomen. She had tentatively begun to hope that perhaps after all the horror they were being tested with for their love, that they would have a happy, full nest. John with a baby nestled in his arms, his expression open and adoring as he lavished love on his child. The two of them together, bathing and clothing and playing with their flesh and blood. The one thing that could stitch back together the remaining ruins of their lives.

All of it gone in a few simple words uttered by Doctor Clarkson.

She buries her face further into her skirts to muffle the sound of her sobs. She had been nervous about being examined in the first place, having adamantly refused after the concert for fear of the news getting out, for fear of the doctor judging her, but there had been no way around it today. An examination had been the only way forward, and she had been hopeful through her fear that he wouldn't notice anything out of the ordinary. When they had made love for the first time since, she had been beside herself with nerves that it wouldn't be the same as it had been before for John, that he would notice something different about her and be unable to take any pleasure from her. But he had reassured her in the aftermath that it had felt just as good as it usually did, that there was nothing at all different.

She wonders now if he had been lying to appease her, not wanting to cause her any more hurt and humiliation than she has already suffered.

Because the doctor had noticed. Immediately. The frown on his face, the burning curiosity in his eyes that went beyond his stoically professional face…there is something wrong with her down there.

He'd known. He'd known what she'd been through. Passed no direct comment on it, of course, because that was not his way, but he had hinted.

"_Mrs. Bates,"_ he'd said, _"if you ever want to seek advice or help, then my door is always open. Everything said in this room is strictly confidential. If there is anything you'd like to know about anything…"_

But how could she? How could she have sat in there and repeated every vile thing that had happened to her? She had barely survived telling her husband, had spared him the most gruesome of details – for both of their sakes. How could she repeat it in such a clinical, cold environment? As if she is unfeeling as stone (and how she wishes she was), that the trauma that she has lived through has not left her broken and scarred?

And there is also the question of who. Doctor Clarkson's face had said it all. That little worm of doubt shining in his eyes, that unasked question.

_Was it your husband, Mrs. Bates?_

As if John could ever be capable of hurting her in such a way. But he is a mysterious, quiet man to most of the village. He has been imprisoned for murder in the past. Acquitted, true. But it would spark off thoughts. What else is he capable of?

She shivers, hating herself for thinking of her husband in the same way as that vile snake, hating Doctor Clarkson for even considering it. But she can't tell the truth. Not now, after all this time has passed.

Now she has no hope to hold onto at all.

The doctor's words are a blur in her head as she forces herself back to her feet. John is waiting for her at home. She can't delay any longer. A thrill of fear paralyses her as she wonders just how she will hide this from him. She can't share it with him. Not yet. Perhaps not ever. How can she tell him that she has failed him yet again? And yet her ability to remain normal under pressure is weak. She had failed so badly in the weeks following her attack. She had pushed her husband away and hurt him because she had been unable to live under the illusion of a lie. And now there is this. Just something else sent to push them to the limit. She has to wonder just how much more either one of them can take before they snap and decide that it is all too much to bear.

Trudging along the path is torture. The supplies feel too heavy in her arms. All the while, Doctor Clarkson's voice reverberates in her head. Talk about infertility. Scar tissue, the thing that had piqued his concern in the first place. Then the growth. Not unusual, he had been quick to reassure her, he's seen plenty of them before, but hers is worrisome. Benign, no threat to her health. But it will make conception difficult. Has she experienced anything out of the ordinary? Heavier bleeding than she's used to? Any pain? What about during sexual intercourse with her husband? Any discomfort there? He's heard of them being brought on by roughness in the marital bed. Had…had that happened at any point?

She has noticed nothing. She should have done. There has to be a sign that she's missed somewhere along the way.

It is a long time since she'd last been in for a check-up, he'd told her. Despite the unusual scar tissue, it is not unusual for them to flare up in women her age. Is there anything specific that could have triggered it?

A part of her mind whispers that she can't know for sure if that vile human had been the cause of it. But in her heart of hearts, she knows. It has to be him. He is the source of all of her misery. It should be no different in this case. Doctor Clarkson had mentioned torn tissue. That could only have occurred by one means.

She clenches her jaw. Secrets had almost destroyed her and John before. But she can see no possible way of telling him that her chances of carrying a child are extremely low. He always talks about how he has failed her, but he doesn't understand. _She_ has failed _him_. And now she can't even give them the one thing that had the potential of improving their lives for good. She can't tell him and watch the hope die in his eyes as it has so many times before.

Once more, this is her burden to bear.

* * *

The outside of the cottage looks beautiful. They had planted new flowers a few weeks ago, and they are beginning to bloom shyly, yellows and reds and oranges, all cheerful, bright colours. Mocking her. It looks homely again, no longer just a house of heartbreak. But here it is, all over again.

She wipes at her eyes on the way down the path. There is nothing she can do about the redness, but she can plaster her stoic face on. She's had enough practice over the last year.

The door is on the latch, and she pushes it open, placing her packages on the little table in the hallway as she unhooks her coat. She can hear the muffled sounds of John moving around in the kitchen. She takes a deep breath to steady herself, pushing her shoulders back. She can do this. She has to.

She pushes the door to the kitchen open, standing quietly by for a moment as she takes in the sight of her husband. He hasn't noticed her yet. The table is overflowing with sandwiches, a basket taking centre stage. There are bottles, ginger beer and cider. Of course. The picnic. Her heart sinks. She'd forgotten about that. The last thing she wants to do is celebrate. But still she swallows hard, forces a smile.

"Hello," she says.

John turns at the sound of her voice, a soft smile on his face. It fades immediately when he sees her.

"Anna?" he questions. "What's wrong? What's happened?"

At the concern in his voice, the hot tears rush to her eyes. Her bottom lip wobbles, her throat working as she tried to formulate a reply. China clatters together as John drops it onto the table. By the look of it, he'd been packing their best service. Always so thoughtful, her man. It only makes her feel worse.

"Did something happen in the village?" he presses.

"I…I forgot the cakes," she says.

"I don't care about the cakes," he dismisses. "This is clearly about something else."

She can't keep up her façade when he looks at her like that. Like he is staring straight through into her soul. Her view of him blurs as the tears blossom again. He crosses the room in a couple of paces, engulfing her in his arms. She sinks into his embrace, pressing her forehead against his broad chest. His large palm cradles the back of her head, careful of her bun, the other moving to her waist, holding her close to him. Her own arms move around his waist of their own accord, squeezing him tight, desperate to soak up some of his strength. His lips brush her hairline, warm and tender.

"Shh," he murmurs. "Don't cry, my darling. Everything's going to be all right. I promise. Shh."

His little nonsense endearments make her feel even worse. Here he is, comforting her, never suspecting what a failure she is yet again. But she is unable to resist his warm embrace, sobs into his chest. She knows she is soaking his shirt, but he makes no comment, only stays there quietly as she wilts against him like a dying flower.

Eventually, the sobs subside, but the pain in her heart is almost overwhelming. She grasps him tight, trying to regulate her breathing. He kisses her hair once more, easing her back slightly.

"Tell me what happened," he says. "Please." Gently, his thumbs smooth her tears away.

She has to come up with something quickly. Anything. She casts about for something. Latches onto the first thing she can.

"Just Mrs. Johnson again," she mutters.

John's expression darkens. "Why, what did she say?"

"Nothing, not really. But it was the way she looked at me."

John draws himself up to his full height, his eyes flashing. "I'll give her a piece of my mind."

"No, John!" she cries. "You can't!"

"I can," he counters, "if she upsets you like this. If she has anything to say, she can say it to my face. And she can hear it in return."

"No, you'd just make it worse!" she exclaims, panicked. The last thing she needs is John taking up a false mantle in her name. Mrs. Johnson, the owner of the village tea shop and the worst gossip going, is indeed a nasty piece of work, who still takes pleasure in making snide remarks about the honour of her husband after his release from prison, but today she is innocent. "Please, John. If you love me you'll leave it alone."

It is the trump card. The fire is extinguished and he caresses her cheeks again, the pads of his thumbs worn by hard work. "Oh, Anna, you know I love you. I love you more than my life. I don't think it's right that she's allowed to get away with upsetting you so much…but I won't go against your wishes. Although if she says anything to get you in a state like this again then I can't make any promises. You've been through enough."

Yes, they've been through enough. She squeezes her eyes tightly closed, clenches her jaw until it hurts. _They've been through enough._ Why are they still being punished? Are they such bad people that they deserve this torment? Has she caused all of this by pursuing a married man without a care?

Movement from John breaks through her thoughts. He kisses her forehead then loosens his grip on her. She feels cold all over again, hunches in on herself.

"Let me just put these things away," he says softly. "I don't expect you feel much like going on a picnic."

She shakes her head wordlessly.

"Well, that's all right. Perhaps if you're feeling a little better later we could have an indoor one instead. Just the two of us in our little home."

"I like the sound of that," she whispers, and he smiles.

"Go and sit yourself down. I'll make you a cup of tea and bring it through."

"Actually, I'd rather we lie down for a while."

"All right. Go and make yourself comfortable. I'll be with you as soon as I've tidied this away."

The few moments apart give her time to try to compose herself. She stares at herself in the vanity mirror as she unhooks her dress and loosens her corset. Blotchy and puffy faced and, she looks a mess. During the brief golden period after his release from prison, she had almost glowed. The happiness on her face had fascinated her. Now all she knows is misery. She averts her eyes.

Climbing into bed, she settles onto her side, waiting for the tell-tale sound of her husband's approach. Her hand moves to cradle her empty abdomen. Tears threatened anew. She sniffs them back, but can't stop them all.

He makes an appearance eventually, shucking off his jacket, removing his tie and collar. He strips down to his undershirt and trousers, and clambers onto the bed beside her. He slips his arms around her, his hand moving to cup hers over her stomach, his front tight to her back. He kisses the side of her neck, squeezing her tight. No words are spoken. They don't need to be. Anna has nothing to say. Instead, she concentrates on the rise and fall of his chest, the reassuring bulk of him. But even with their bodies pressed so close together, she can feel a barrier between them. She is withdrawing, shrinking, moving out of reach like she had on all those long, lonely nights.

And the silent tears fall all over again.

* * *

Days pass. All the while, the pain grows worse.

There will never be a wriggling baby Bates in her arms. She will never feather kisses across soft, downy hair, will never know the incredible mixture of emotions at carrying a child inside her, will never witness John with a son or daughter. She has nothing to give him.

She senses his confusion as he watches her cross the room. She can feel his worry as he pushes plate after plate of sweet treats in front of her, only for her to reject each one. She has no appetite. She isn't eating for two, after all.

On this night, John sits up in bed while she brushes her hair at her vanity, staring absent-mindedly at her reflection. Her pallor is decidedly grey. There are bags under her eyes. The first fine lines are making their presence known around her eyes. Eyes which are older than they should be.

Life has aged her far too much recently.

She remembers a time when John had praised and flattered her for her youthfulness. _"You stayed young," _he'd told her. She will never forget those words. Another statement that will never be true again. Her youthfulness is gone.

"Anna."

His raised voice makes her jump, and she twists around in her seat. There is a slight frown creasing his brow. The familiar worry mars his countenance. How she had hoped that that tortured look was a distant thing of the past. He tries a soft smile, clearly for her benefit.

"I've called you five times. Where were you?" He tries to keep his tone light and joking, but the tremor beneath gives him away.

"I'm sorry," she sighs.

"Never be sorry."

He's repeated those words a thousand times over. She still disagrees with them. But there is no sense in arguing. He'll only dispute everything she says anyway. A dark part of her wishes he wouldn't. That he'd rage and scream at her. It would make it easier to hate herself.

As if he would. He is as gallingly loyal to her as she is to him. Was this what it had felt like for him at the beginning, when he couldn't act on any of his feelings and she had followed him staunchly anyway? Had her unwillingness to give up made him hate her just the tiniest bit, alongside that deep and agonising love?

"Come to bed," he says softly.

She realises that she's been staring at him for a few minutes now, and shakes herself to life. Tying her hair off, she rises to her feet, taking her time to clamber into bed beside him. He wraps her in his arms at once, his lips moving to the sensitive spot behind her ear that still makes her toes curl.

"I've missed you this past week," he sighs into her hair.

"I've been here all along."

"No, you haven't," he says softly. The words are a punch to the gut.

"I'm here now," she says. "Is there any way I can make it up to you?"

He reclines there on his back, his hair unkempt, chest hair peeping seductively through his nightshirt. He offers her a boyish smile, leaning up to press gentle kisses to her cheek, the side of her neck, back again. The first scratching of his stubble scrapes her face. The tip of his tongue teases her throat.

And her insides are dead. No stirrings of response. It kills her even more. John needs her. And she can't even give him that. Because of that snake. And her own inability to realise that her instincts were wrong.

They together have been the cause of this. Once more, John is innocent. They've robbed him of his chance at fatherhood. Torn tissue and growths. That's all the gift she can give him. Dirty, obscene repayments, whatever he might declare to the contrary.

Just the thought of trying to push herself for his sake makes her sick to the stomach. She can't do it. Not again. Can't bear the thoughts of dirtiness and being soiled.

Hating herself for being the cause of yet more pain, she says, "Not tonight, John."

He backs off at once, as she knew he would, his eyes wide. "Of course. I'm sorry, Anna. I never meant to imply –"

"I know," she tells him quickly. "_I'm _the one who's sorry. I want to. I do. I just…I'm tired."

"I understand," he tells her, easing back.

He can't understand. She manages a tremulous smile, moving to give him a reassuring kiss. It tastes of ash and broken dreams.

"I love you," she tells him. It's the only truth she can tell him now.

"I love you too," he replies, all ardent sincerity. "Now get some sleep. We've another long day ahead of us tomorrow."

She nods. He wriggles over to give her more room, the mattress creaking comfortingly. How many times has she heard that sound in the heat of lovemaking? How many nights had they giggled over it like new lovers, wondering if the Tripps would hear them and know what they were up to? How many times had John teased her that they'd know anyway, with her exquisite inability to keep quiet? Now the sound is a lonely one, signifying the isolated descent into sleep, the gulf between them growing larger by the day.

He puts his arm around her, as he usually does, but she still feels as if she's floating away.

* * *

**A/N:** My medical knowledge is rather poor, but I did try to do some research. I read at a couple of sources that fibroids _can_ be caused by sexual assault. However, they are usually benign and are apparently fairly common in women in mid-late reproductive years too. Only a small percentage (roughly three percent) are the cause of infertility. Apologies if something is way off.

I don't want this to be all doom and gloom mostly because that's depressing for me too. I guess we've got to try to have some faith in series five. :(


	2. A Hollow World

**A/N:** Thank you for all the encouraging reviews on the first chapter. I'll continue to try my best.

I realise that I stretch belief and credibility a little with the document of this chapter, but if we can have the dead communicating through a Ouija board, then we can have this kind of contract.

* * *

_2. A Hollow World_

Every day, she curses herself for being unable to rise above the storm clouds that hang low over her head. If she has any chance of convincing her husband that she is fine, then she needs to start acting like it. But her smiles are strained and painful, the muscles in her face refusing to co-operate.

Because she is childless. _They _are going to be childless.

A huge part of her knows that she should be honest with him. She had desperately wanted to be honest with him in the days following her ordeal, had longed to throw herself into his arms and let him reassure her that everything would be all right. But that had not been a possibility then, and it isn't now. He would shoulder the blame himself, torture himself with the thought that he should have been there to protect her in the first place, that all of the pain that she has suffered is because he is a useless excuse for a man and a useless excuse for a husband. He tortures himself enough. She will not allow him to brood further.

She is the only one to blame for this. And the monster. Once more, she will wrap the albatross around her neck and bear the full weight of her crushing failings.

She is still scaring him. She can see it in his eyes, in the soft way that he touches her. She tries to be the Anna he needs, but that woman is gone. Only a shadow of her remains.

The shadow of her shies away from human contact again. The shadow of her cannot bear to make love. She is reverting. Once more, he is afraid to touch her. They lay on their own sides of the bed, backs facing away from each other. The sea of sheets between them is cold and untouched.

Sometimes, she feels him shaking with tears. And she doesn't know what to do. Lies there helplessly beside him, listening to her husband's pain. She cries with him on those nights, equally silent, equally alone. How she wishes things could be different. They might have had children by now, little infants racing round and causing delightful chaos. They ought to have been exhausted at the end of the day from running after their children, blissfully happy together. Not this.

On this particular day, she had risen earlier, unable to sleep. She had always relished lingering in bed, though those days had been few and far between. Now she is too restless, too prone to dark thoughts.

She hadn't seen her husband until breakfast, had been forced to look into those hurt, questioning eyes. It had reminded her all too harshly of the days following that terrible night.

Thankfully, she's been busy most of the morning, and hasn't had any opportunity to see John since. He has not actively sought her out. She is grateful for the space he is giving her, even if she knows it is at his own expense.

But tonight she promises to make a special effort for him. He deserves a reward. Perhaps she can get permission to take him out to dinner, treat him to something nice. Maybe she'll find it within herself to allow him to touch her, to give him the reassurance that she knows he needs.

There's time to gear herself up for that. For now, she needs to speak with Mrs. Hughes to see if her plan can possibly come into fruition.

Approaching the door to the housekeeper's sitting room, she is stopped short by muffled voices. The door is just slightly ajar. Eavesdropping is wrong, she knows that, so she makes to backtrack and return later when the conversation is over, but she hears her name.

Who is talking about her?

All thoughts of leaving are cast out of her mind. The corridor is deserted. If she creeps a little closer, she'll be able to hear what is being said properly…

Lightening her steps, she sneaks forward, standing just to the side of the doorway. Mrs. Hughes is speaking.

"…I agree, she has seemed more out of sorts lately. She's withdrawing again."

"Do you think she's mentioned anything to Bates?" It's Lady Mary she's speaking to. Anna furrows her brow. Just why is the young woman down here, discussing her? What right does she have?

She hears Mrs. Hughes sigh. "I don't think so, milady. He looks like the world is falling down around him and he isn't quite sure how to right it again. I'm reminded of how he was just after…just after it happened. He doesn't know."

"Then what could have caused it? Some bad news?"

"It's possible, milady. But whatever it is, she's keeping it to herself. She must have her reasons."

Lady Mary lowers her voice. Anna leans in closer, straining to hear.

"You don't suppose she could have found out about Bates' ticket to London?"

The world around her spins as the blood drains from her head. She manages to put a hand out to steady herself against the wall, but her vision still spins. Somehow, she knows exactly what they're talking about. It could have been at any time. Her husband has travelled to London many times in the past, and many times since…since it happened. But with horrible instinct she knows that the two women are only referring to one dark day.

_No. No, it can't be…_

The urge to be sick rises from the pit of her stomach, but she fights against it valiantly, her mind whirring as she processes everything. Just when had Lady Mary and Mrs. Hughes discovered that her husband had been to London? Why has this been kept from her? Cold spreads through her entire body, icing her veins. It's too much to take in. Tears burn, then fall. She presses her hand against her mouth to restrain her sobs. Her husband isn't a murderer. He isn't. He's innocent.

Isn't he?

She turns away from the door, unable to stand listening any longer, and flees from the scene.

* * *

She has to stay late after all, so she manages to convince John to go home without her. He has been reluctant to do that ever since that night, preferring to sit in the servants' hall for hours rather than leave her to make the walk home in the dark alone. Usually, she is glad of this even as she feels the unwanted contrast of bitter frustration that he coddles her so, a confusion of silly emotions that she has grown used to over the past eighteen months. But tonight she needs to be alone, to mull over the things that she has heard. To brood like her husband does.

She barely takes notice of the dark as she walks along, her head bowed and shoulders hunched, trying to make herself as small as possible.

The overarching thought in her mind is that he'd lied to her. Stood there and promised that he wouldn't do anything that would risk their future, all the while with a ticket to London burning a hole in his pocket. The next emotion is the fear, knotting her stomach, making tears blister behind her eyes and her insides twist with terrified sickness. She's heard no word from the police that the incident which had killed that monster is being treated as anything but an unfortunate accident…but what if they discover something else incriminating? Something that places her husband at the scene of the crime?

She can't watch him hang. _She can't_. The thud of the trapdoor would signify the end of her own life.

The cottages come into sight. Light burns in their bedroom. He is still awake. She isn't sure if she's glad about that or not.

Unlocking the door, she steps into the hallway. She takes her time shedding her layers, wanting to postpone the inevitable meeting between them as long as possible. But it can't last, and soon enough she hears John creaking about above her head, then his heavy tread along the landing.

"Anna?" he calls softly.

"I'm here," she manages to reply.

"Are you coming up to bed?"

She contemplates saying that she wants a cup of tea, anything that might mean he is asleep before she makes her way upstairs. But that is the coward's way out.

_You need to confront this._

It's now or never. If she doesn't broach the topic now, she'll never be brave enough to do it in the harsh light of day.

"I'm coming," she says, her voice wavering. He smiles at her from the top of the stairs, then retreats back to the bedroom. She takes a moment to compose herself before following.

With every step she takes, the air filters from her lungs until she can barely breathe. It feels as if she has heavy irons tied around her wrists and ankles, weighing her down. She very much feels like a prisoner being dragged to her own personal gallows. Her entire future depends on John's answers here tonight.

In the doorway she takes in the sight of him, down to his undershirt and pyjama bottoms. His hair is loose and flopping over his forehead. There is strength contained in the gentle frame of his body. Brute strength, some would say. Reassuring to her. Dangerous to the people who have never forgiven him for his past.

Had they been right all along?

He gives her a soft smile when he turns to face her.

"I thought you deserved some pampering," he says. "You've been working so hard recently. It's time you relaxed. I've run you a bath, put in your favourite salts. There are a couple of kettles of boiling water in the bathroom for you to warm it up if you need to."

"Thank you. That's very thoughtful."

"It's nothing. Truly, Anna. You deserve to be spoiled."

His expression is open and worshipping. It almost feels sinful to look at it. She forces a smile of her own.

"I could do with a nice soak. My shoulders feel a bit tight."

"I can rub them for you afterwards. If you'd like," he is quick to add.

"We'll see," she says. "I'll go and have it now, if that's all right."

"By all means. Take as long as you need."

She nods vaguely, turning to go back the way she'd come. But she can't leave without asking. Pulling on her mask while she can't see his face, she faces him once more, scrutinising.

She says, "John, what were you doing in York just before the village bazaar?"

The shutters slam closed over his eyes. His jaw tightens. But he tries to lighten it, his tone jovial, if strained. "Are you really asking me about something I did more than a year ago?"

"Yes," she says, never taking her eyes form his face, "I am."

"I don't even remember, it was so long ago. I just had a look round."

He remembers. She can see it in that tightened jaw. Because he hadn't even been in York that day. Had been much further south than that.

_Plotting someone's death?_

A cold shiver runs through her body, and she breaks eye contact with him. Her voice is a little unsteady as she tells him that she's going for that bath. In their cramped bathroom, she leans against the closed door, trembling. She had given him the opportunity to tell her the truth. But he had stuck with his York story. It can only mean one thing.

He has something to hide. And she has to find out what, for her own sanity.

* * *

The next morning, she moves silently around Lady Mary's bedroom, gathering together dirty laundry while her mistress eats her breakfast. She can feel the younger woman's eyes burning into her back as she moves. She braces herself, waiting for the inevitable questions that she has become so used to over the years.

"Anna, are you all right?"

"Perfectly, milady," she says tonelessly.

"Are you sure? You've been acting…distant lately. I'm a little worried."

"No need to, milady. I'm made of strong stuff, I'll be all right."

Even if she still feels like she'll shatter like fragile glass at any moment. Even if she's so delicately set that a single blow could break her. She can pull on her armour. She's watched Lady Mary do it enough times in the past. She has picked up the art.

Lady Mary frowns, but she drops the subject, moving onto something else entirely. "I'm actually planning a trip to London next week."

The words catch her off guard, and she almost drops the expensive Grecian shawl that she's holding into the crackling fire. She struggles to keep her voice neutral. "Oh?"

"Yes, I'm meeting Lord Gillingham while I'm there, thought I could make a little break of it. There's only so much farming talk I can take at times." She pauses, frowns suspiciously. "Is there a problem with that?"

"No, not at all," she rushes to reassure.

"I know you don't like being parted from Bates, but it's only for a week. Perhaps the distance will do the two of you good, give you a bit of space."

"Perhaps you're right, milady." It will provide her with something. The chance to do some investigating of her own without scrutiny from anyone else.

"So you can be prepared?"

"I can." At least, she can try. Whether she truly can be prepared for what buried secrets are about to be uncovered in London, she can't say. Because she has to know the truth, no matter what.

She just prays that it won't tear them further apart.

* * *

They stand in the corridor outside the servants' hall together. John shifts from foot to foot, evidently searching for something to break the silence surrounding them.

"I'll see you soon," he settles for finally.

"A week will pass quickly," she murmurs.

"They never do when you're not here with me. I'll miss you, very much."

She wonders if he will miss her as much as he had done in the past, when she had been vibrant and fun-loving, when their days had been spent so happily, their nights so passionately. She manages a tight smile.

"May I kiss you?" he asks softly.

He had wanted to make love to her that morning, had nuzzled against her like a shy, fumbling boy, and she had pushed him away, unable to face it, unable to feel such joy in the light of all the confusing things she has discovered about both of them in recent weeks. But she can manage a kiss. So she nods, and he leans in towards her, one hand barely touching her waist. She accepts the kiss quietly, knowing that they can't get too carried away out here in the open. He pulls away slowly, as if he can barely bear to do so, raising his hand to brush his thumb over her bottom lip.

"I love you, you know," he tells her.

Enough to kill for her? Enough to risk everything that they've ever worked for?

He's waiting for a reply, she realises. His eyes are shuttered again, almost stone. He looks as if he is bracing himself for a rejection.

"I love you too," she manages.

Because she does. Despite all of this confusion and horror and uncertainty, she loves him fiercely, more than she had thought it was possible to love somebody else. She would do absolutely anything to keep him safe.

_Maybe it's no different for him._

Anything. Murder. Can she really blame him if it's true? Isn't there a vengeful, horrible part of her soul that takes joy in the fact that the monster has been silenced for good, will never again slither up behind her – at least in reality, for she cannot control her dreams – and will never hurt anyone else in the same way?

There is. But she doesn't want it to be at her husband's hands.

_That's not the man he is. He's not a cold-blooded killer. _Looking into his soft eyes, she finds it so hard to believe.

But York. London. Those questions.

The smile drops from her face.

"Do you mean that?" he asks quietly.

"Of course I do," she says without missing a beat. Hesitation now would spell the beginning of a life of doubts on his behalf. She cannot cause him any more agony, not after everything. He had doubted her love for him once. She won't let those same thoughts fester again. "I'll see you when I get back."

He nods solemnly, and she feels compelled to lean in. Her hand slips into his loosely, so small and fragile compared with his. She reaches up on her tiptoes to catch his mouth in a soft, lingering kiss. Tears well behind her eyes, but she forces them back. She loves every inch of this man so very, very much. The thought of life without him is not worth contemplating. She wouldn't survive it. Not after everything she's endured.

Slowly, she pulls away from him. His own eyes are closed, evidently savouring the most intimate contact between them in weeks. She brushes her thumb across his cheekbone before stepping away entirely.

"I love you," she repeats, stronger this time. She picks up her valise and heads towards the servants' entrance. She feels his wondering gaze heavy on her all the while.

* * *

They arrive in London with little incident. The bustle of the big city has always been somewhat frightening to her, a country girl used to the quiet and peace of Yorkshire. But now she knows better. The countryside is no safer than the city.

Lady Mary marches purposefully towards the car that Lady Rosamund has sent to the station for them.

"I don't think there's any point starting anything today," she says. "The travelling has rather worn me out. I think I'll have a rest when I first get there."

"Very good, milady."

She doesn't think there's any point in starting anything today, either. She needs one more night to face whatever is coming in the future.

* * *

In Lady Rosamund's London home, she paces back and forth. This is it. Tomorrow, Lady Mary is out all day, visiting with Lord Gillingham. She has the day to herself. She had told her mistress that she would do some shopping, take a look around. It's not exactly a lie, just a half-truth. She's become very proficient dealing with those.

A part of her wishes that she had never listened in to that conversation, was still ignorant of everything. Doesn't she have enough to deal with right now? She screws up her eyes, caresses the ghost of the child in her stomach. Forces out a breath. Can she bear the weight of both?

After another moment, she opens her eyes. She can. She has to. Concentrating on one at a time.

For the next few days, she will focus solely on her husband's trip to London. A different kind of agony to the one that she has been enduring. Perhaps the pain of that will distract her from her own failings.

Her mind is made up.

She has some investigating of her own to do. But she can't do it alone.

* * *

_Tate and Walker_, the sign says. The little office is tucked down a discreet side street in busy Belgravia. She has passed it many times in her ventures in the capital, but has never taken much notice of it.

At least not until now.

Cautiously, she pushes open the door. A bell tinkles somewhere, alerting the occupants of the building to her arrival. For a moment, she almost bolts back the way she had come – _she'll be braver tomorrow_ – but the opportunity is robbed from her when a squat gentleman bustles in from the back room. He's older than she is by a couple of decades, but his eyes are young and watchful.

"Good afternoon," he says. "How may I help?"

She finds that the words stick in her throat. Sweat slimes hands beneath her gloves. But she pulls herself together and holds her head high.

"Hello," she says. "I was wondering if you might be able to help me."

"That's what we aim to do, ma'am."

She flushes; how stupid she sounds. But the man's smile is kind, and he gestures to a seat in front of a wooden desk, moving to turn the _Open_ sign to _Closed_.

"We never allow anyone to disturb us when we're with a client," he tells her. "Make yourself comfortable and tell us what you have to. Would you like a cup of tea? I'll just fetch my associate."

"I'd love a cup of tea, thank you." Something strong and sweet to steady her nerves.

"Sit yourself down, then. I'll be back shortly." The man bustles out of the room, leaving Anna alone. She does as she's been bid, sinking into a plush seat in front of a handsome mahogany desk. Needing to take her mind off the nerves that are eating her alive, she glances around the room. Sparse. Functional. No-nonsense. Exactly the kind of place she appreciates. Mr. Tate and Mr. Walker are clearly professionals. And as much as she hates doing this, doubting her own husband, she knows that she'll never rest again until she has the truth. One way or the other.

The two men return minutes later, Mr. Tate, the shorter of the two, carrying the tea tray. He's added a couple of biscuits too, and she nibbles at one, more to be polite than out of any real appetite. Mr. Walker perches a pair of spectacles on the end of his pointed nose, peering at her.

"Now, how can we help you, Mrs…?"

"Mrs. Bates," she supplies, then stalls. "The matter is rather delicate…"

"Rest assured that discretion is our motto," says Mr. Tate. "Whatever you tell us here will remain in the strictest of confidences."

_But what if they uncover a murder?_

Are they still bound by the same code of the law? What if her own hands send her husband to the gallows?

"Will the outcome present moral problems?" she asks in one breath, as if saying it quicker will soften the blow of the answer.

"If you are asking if we will report our findings to the police…you can imagine the predicament we might face. Of course, usually we face no worse than a man seeking to know if his wife is having an affair."

"And what you bring us is far more troublesome than that," notes Mr. Walker. She isn't sure she likes his no-nonsense manner. She feels like a colt being fed to the wolves.

"But we might be able to help you," says Mr. Tate. "Tell us all about it."

She is struck with sudden inspiration then. "I want a contract drawn up."

The two men exchange looks.

"You must do them for all your clients," she says. "I want a contract that says that the information I have will never go any further than this room, no matter what is discovered. The woman…the woman involved in all of this wouldn't be able to bear it, do you understand? I think it would kill her."

She must look deranged herself, making vague, unnerving comments about the law. But she won't leave herself open in that way. She won't jeopardise his life.

Mr. Tate stares her out, but he is the one who breaks, sighing heavily. Perhaps he sympathises with the desperation that enshrouds her like a widow's mourning garb.

"Very well," he says. "I'll draw up the contract myself. I'll do it now so you haven't had a wasted journey."

Mr. Walker turns to him with raised eyebrows, but Mr. Tate only jerks his head, an indication that he should follow. Once more, she is left alone in the room. She twists the handle of her little bag until she thinks that it will snap. John had mended this for her once, mere days after his release from prison. He's done wonders with mending bits of her since that day. But her heart still weeps blood from the smallest of incisions. He'll never stitch that closed until she has the truth.

She doesn't know how much time passes before the two men return. Mr. Tate clutches a freshly typed bundle of paper.

"Here you are, Mrs. Bates," he says. "No hidden traps. Sign here, please."

She takes it cautiously in her hands, rustles through the pages. She won't put the pen to anything until she knows that she is safe from every angle. She reads immeasurably slowly, reads it twice, making sure that she understands every word there for fear that she'll miss some loophole. But it all reads legitimately, and there is nothing to do but sign her name at the bottom with a careful cursive.

It's done now, whatever is discovered.

Mr. Tate offers her a gentle smile. "Now that we've taken care of that, why don't we start at the beginning?"

Anna takes a deep breath to compose herself. And then she begins to speak.

* * *

"Anna, are you all right?"

Lady Mary's voice breaks through her heavy thoughts, and she lifts her head to find her mistress staring at her with those perfectly sculpted eyebrows raised in curiosity. She manages a smile, but it is not a happy one.

"I'm all right, thank you, milady."

"Are you sure? You still seem out of sorts. Has something happened today?"

"No, honestly. I took a walk along the Thames and had a lovely time. I'm a little tired now."

"I suppose the capital tires the best of us," Lady Mary allows, though she still sounds suspicious. "Perhaps you should get to bed early tonight."

"I will, milady."

There is silence for a few minutes while Anna works on her mistress' hair, making sure it is perfectly coifed for her dinner at the best restaurant London has to offer. Apparently Mr. Blake is meeting her tonight. Lady Mary is certainly testing them both out well before committing to either. Anna is privately sad that Mr. Napier has fallen by the wayside again.

"Is there something else you wish to say?"

So Lady Mary has noticed. Anna takes a deep breath, wringing her hands together. "Milady, do you think it would be possible to telephone Downton tonight?"

"Whatever for?"

She bites at her lip, refusing to meet the younger woman's gaze in the mirror. "I just…I need to hear Mr. Bates' voice tonight." After the day she's had, she needs any kind of comfort she can get.

"All right then," Lady Mary says slowly. "I won't pretend to understand why, but I don't see any harm in it. Ask Mr. Fuller to connect you."

"Thank you, milady," she says softly. "I can't tell you how much it means to me right now."

Lady Mary fixes her with a hard look.

She says, "No. And I don't suppose that I really want to know the reasons why."

* * *

She waits a long time while the operator connects her to Downton Abbey. The receiver is slick with sweat. She tugs at the collar of her dress with trembling fingers.

And then, at last, a voice.

"Good evening, I am Mr. Carson, the butler of Downton Abbey. How may I be of service?"

The clipped monotone of her superior washes over her, and she relaxes her coiled limbs just slightly.

"It's Anna, Mr. Carson," she says.

"Anna?" He sounds surprised to hear her. "Is something wrong with Lady Mary?"

"No, Lady Mary is fine," she is quick to reassure him. "I just wondered if I might have a word with Mr. Bates."

She hears his huff of frustration. "I'm not sure I like my pantry being used for a social call."

"I'm sorry, Mr. Carson. It won't happen again."

"See that it doesn't. I'll fetch Mr. Bates for you."

She is left alone for long minutes with just her own maddening thoughts for company. The phone slips in her greasy palm; she tightens her hold on it when she hears the faint noise of the phone being picked up at the other end of the line.

"Hello, my darling." Her husband sounds tired, and more than a little worried. "Are you all right?"

The sound of his voice makes an embarrassing wave of emotion wash over her. She gulps hard, ashamed with the tears that well up in her eyes. "I'm all right."

"Are you sure? You sound a little odd."

"It must be the line."

Awkward silence for a moment. John is clearly scrabbling for something to say.

"I wasn't expecting a call tonight," he settles on at last.

"I wasn't expecting giving one either. I just really needed to hear your voice. I love you, John."

"Well, I shall never turn down an opportunity to hear that," he says, but he still sounds unsure. "Anna, has something happened?"

"No," she says quickly, too quickly. "I've had a perfectly lovely day. I went for a walk, did a bit of sightseeing."

"That sounds very nice. Better than endless hours of mending, anyway."

"And I just wanted to say I love you because I don't know if you really understand how much I do." The words come in a rush now, running into one like the downward current of a stream. "I appreciate everything you do for me and I'm sorry if I'm not the person you want me to be or need me to be, but I promise I'm trying, and –"

"Slow down, slow down!" he interrupts her. He sounds genuinely nonplussed. "Anna, my darling, you have absolutely nothing to apologise for. God knows you're allowed to feel the way you do. I just wish there was more I could do to take away your pain."

"You just loving me is enough," she reassures him. "I wouldn't be here without you, John."

He makes a sound of protest. "Anna, don't say such things –"

"I mean it," she says. "If…if something were to happen and I lost you –"

"Nothing is going to happen," he tells her firmly. "I promise, Anna."

"You _can't _promise it," she says. "I used to think there were things in life that were certain, but even those I'm not sure of any more –" She catches herself, takes a shuddering breath. "Never mind all that. I just wanted to say I love you and I miss you."

She can hear the worry dripping off his words. "Anna, this sounds like something we need to talk about now –"

"No," she says firmly, "no, it isn't. We'll talk when I get back."

Before he can offer up another protest, she replaces the receiver.

And she cries all over again. Enough tears to drown the world.

* * *

As she lies in bed, she replays the words she had said to the two men. How she had explained the story of the poor unfortunate woman she knew who had trusted the wrong man and paid the price, and had been frightened in turn by what her husband might do. All retold calmly, coldly. As if telling it this way makes it true, as if separating herself from the horror separates her from the pain. As if it hadn't been her body ripped apart, her spirit destroyed, her husband a stranger.

She pulls the sheets tight to her, suddenly freezing. The monster isn't John's only tie with London.

Tomorrow, she will investigate them herself.

* * *

Her heels clip on the cobbled street as she makes her way through London. She has only been to this part of the city a few times in her life, but she knows it well.

John's mother's house is down this street.

Her insides coil at what potential answers she may find inside. Although the house is still in her name, it is not unreasonable to assume that John might have visited that day. Though why he would feel the need to be secretive about it, she doesn't know.

She reaches the front door and knocks.

There are several seconds of nothing, which only allow Anna's fears to fester all over again. But then the door is opened by a young, petite woman, a babe attached to her hip – Mrs. Hayes. Anna's breath catches. She can barely stand the sight of the baby's round face and flailing limbs, knowing that she will never have that same experience for herself. But she straightens her back and replaces her mask.

"Can I help you?" the young woman asks.

"I hope you might be able to. I'm Mrs. Bates."

At the realisation of who she is, Mrs. Hayes gasps. "Oh, Mrs. Bates! How rude of me! Would you like to come in for a cup of tea?"

"If it wouldn't be a bother."

"Not at all! Please, this way."

Anna follows her down the hall. It's been so long since she was last here. When she'd sorted the house out for renting with Mrs. Hughes. With her husband in prison. She closes her eyes, blinks away the urge to cry. Not now, not here.

The house has changed a lot. She remembers visiting John's mother all those long, long years ago, seeking out the truth. The house had been tidy but a little dusty, the older woman's failing eyesight making it difficult to clean as effectively as she had before. She remembers John employing someone to clean once a week not long after that, to take the strain from his mother's shoulders. He'd been a good son, even if he hadn't always been easy. The sitting room is transformed. Gone are the two little seats, the endless trinkets. Now there is a sofa, countless children's toys, much less china. The room has been redecorated, is lighter than it had been when the elder Mrs. Bates had occupied it. There is nothing of the old owner left. Time moves on for everyone. Anna's mouth twists. She just wishes that it would move on for her, too.

"Would you like to sit down?" Mrs. Hayes asks. "I'll put Harry down for his nap and I'll be right with you."

Anna nods, moving to make herself comfortable on the sofa. Little balls, toy soldiers, a soft bear. Her own cottage floor will never know the same chaos. She swallows hard.

Mrs. Hayes returns minutes later carrying a tea tray. She settles down beside her, turning to face her.

"What is it that I can help you with, Mrs. Bates?" she asks. "I trust we're being good tenants?" She can detect the worry in the younger woman's voice as she stirs in the sugar.

"Very good tenants," she reassures her. "I've just got a couple of questions that I'd like to ask, concerning my husband."

Confusion crosses Mrs. Hayes' face. "Mr. Bates?"

"Yes, that's right." She takes a deep breath. This is it. "I was just wondering, did Mr. Bates visit you one day last summer?"

Evidently wondering if this is a trick question, Mrs. Hayes nods slowly. "Yes, he did, for an hour or so. Why?"

The brief, overwhelming relief is soon strangled by the oppressive fear. It changes nothing. There are plenty of hours in the day; plenty of hours for John to have got from his mother's old house to Piccadilly…

"I would like to know what he discussed with you."

Mrs. Hayes frowns, looking uncomfortable. "Didn't he tell you?"

"I'm afraid not, which is precisely why I'm here now, asking you in person."

"Will he…will he be angry if I tell you?" she asks. "If he didn't want you to know…"

"Don't worry, I shan't tell him." More lies. She wonders if this young woman can see through them as well as anyone else. "There's just something that I am very eager to get to the bottom of, and I believe you can help me."

"All right," Mrs. Hayes relents. She takes a long gulp of tea, before setting the cup back down. It rattles in the saucer. "Mr. Bates came down to London to see how my husband and I were getting on…and to see if we'd be interested in buying the house outright."

Anna's imagination has conjured up all manner of scenarios, but she hadn't thought of this. Her heart swings in her chest, not sure whether it should leap to her throat or plummet to smash beneath her feet. She takes a deep breath to calm herself.

"I see," she says, though it's still murky black, impossible to navigate through. "Did he say why he was making such enquiries?"

Mrs. Hayes casts her a wary look. "Well…he mentioned something about a change of scenery, that the two of you were looking to do something else, and you needed extra funds…"

A change of scenery. For what? Her mouth twists bitterly. The memories will never be completely gone, no matter where she lives. She wonders sometimes if she'll ever be free of the shadows. She should be better than she is.

Or perhaps there is a more sinister reason. Perhaps…

No, she won't think it.

Seemingly oblivious to her inner turmoil, Mrs. Hayes continues, "Well, while this is a lovely house, Mrs. Bates, it just wasn't feasible at the time. I'd just found out I was pregnant and my husband was trying to pick up extra shifts at work just for a bit of extra money, and we just couldn't afford to even consider it…" Her eyes widen. "That's not why you're here, is it? Mr. Bates was very kind at the time, said he understood, but he seemed very disappointed…you're not going to give us our notice for someone else who wants to buy outright?" The very idea of it makes the young woman's lower lip quiver. "I mean, we would consider buying at some point, but our life is just starting to settle back down and we'd quite like it to stay like this for a little while longer…"

"I'm not here to give you your notice," Anna says quickly, even as her heart pulses at the rotting core at the thought of a normal life. "I just wanted to know what Mr. Bates was doing in London that day. You've been immensely helpful. Thank you."

Mrs. Hayes still looks confused. "That's quite all right."

Replacing her still full cup of tea on the little table in front of her, Anna says, "I really must be leaving now."

"Of course." Mrs. Hayes stands and shows her back to the door.

"Thank you for your time," says Anna, stepping over the threshold.

"Any time, Mrs. Bates."

Anna ducks her head in acknowledgement, and swivels round to retrace the path she'd taken here. Her mind is buzzing. John visited the tenants in London. But had he had any ulterior motives in mind that day? She checks her watch. Mrs. Hayes had said that he didn't spend more than an hour there. He didn't get back to Downton until late.

Plenty of time to get to Piccadilly…

Anna swallows hard.

* * *

Two days later, she gets the phone call. It's Mr. Tate.

"Mrs. Bates?" he says. "Can you come by the office?"

"Yes," she manages. "Will this afternoon by all right?"

"It will."

His tone of voice gives nothing away. She just hopes that it won't end her world once more when the time comes.

* * *

**A/N:** Anna's own troubles haven't been forgotten, but I believe there's only so much heartache you can focus on at once.


	3. Home to the Heart

**A/N:** Thanks for the continued reviews and support. Very much appreciated on this piece!

* * *

_3. Home to the Heart_

She steps into the office after Mr. Walker to find Mr. Tate already waiting.

"Why don't you take a seat?" he says. "Would you like some tea?"

Numbly, she shakes her head; what is the point in prolonging the inevitable?

"Very well," says Mr. Tate. He sifts through some papers on his desk. "We looked into the matter that you described to us. The one that your…friend is particularly anxious about."

The way that he looks right through her suggests that he doesn't believe in this friend at all, but she keeps her head high and stares him down until he looks away. A stony exterior. Something else that she had perfected during those awful weeks following that night. But her heart is palpitating so fast that she thinks it will burst free of the bone cage of her ribs, lie helplessly underfoot as these two men stamp the last remaining life out of it. Can she bear to listen to those words, to return to her husband and _know_?

"We sourced some witnesses to the scene you described," Mr. Tate says, "and we searched through the medical files. Seems that it was trauma to the head that killed him."

"It's ironic in a way, that he'd pulled so hard at her hair, dragged her kicking and screaming behind him, and it had been his head that had cracked like a hardboiled egg. A sort of sick justice, perhaps.

She shakes the thought away, aware of the memories creeping closer, threatening to engulf her. _Focus on the present_. Even if the present is black.

Mr. Tate continues, "There was also damage to his ribs and his sides, presumably from the impact of being hit by the bus."

Nothing less than he deserves, a horrible voice whispers in the back of her head. She takes a split-second to wonder if his bruises resembled hers.

"He was pronounced dead at the scene," Mr. Walker chips in.

She knows they're only dancing around the only important information. The only thing she needs to hear. "And the witnesses?"

"They all said the same thing," says Mr. Tate. "He lost his footing and fell into the road."

The iron fist around her throat loosens just slightly. "There was no one at the scene like I described?"

"No one," Mr. Walker confirms.

It takes every ounce of strength within her to keep a stoic face. "My friend will be pleased," she says stiffly.

"So you're satisfied with our findings?"

"Very. Thank you for all your help, Mr. Tate, Mr. Walker."

"Not at all, Mrs. Bates. We're pleased to be of service to you." Mr. Tate pauses, studies her. "And I presume that whatever – ah – legal ramification your friend had been afraid of is unfounded."

"I suppose you're right." She keeps her voice neutral, emotionless.

Mr. Tate studies her a moment longer. "Sometimes the less said the better, Mrs. Bates. You've got the information you came for. Do with it what you will."

She nods and rises, offers a steady hand to shake. Mr. Walker sees her to the door. She gives him a last mechanical smile, then makes her way down the street. No emotion, not yet. They might read it on her face. Later, when she is alone.

But the first ray of weak sunlight breaks through the thick black clouds, colouring the grey world with a yellow hue.

* * *

"You certainly seem cheerier tonight," Lady Mary comments as Anna brushes her hair. "What's happened?"

"Nothing, milady," she replies, her usual answer nowadays.

Lady Mary gives her a look that lets her know that she doesn't believe her, but she doesn't pursue it further. "Are you looking forward to Downton tomorrow?"

"I am, milady. A change of scenery is nice now and then, but there's nothing quite like home."

"Quite. And I expect Bates has been missing you something terrible."

"I expect so, milady. And I've missed him."

"Of course you have." Her gaze lingers. "Have you a nice reunion planned for him?"

Tying off the end of her mistress' hair, she says, "I have, milady."

* * *

Finally, when she is alone, she sinks onto the end of her narrow bed, wrapping her arms around herself as if that will contain the overwhelming storm of emotion that she feels inside herself.

He hadn't done it. _He hadn't done it._

She presses her fist to her mouth, tries to stifle the sobs that break free. Whatever else he might have done that day, he hadn't done what she'd feared. Mr. Tate and Mr. Walker could have told her that he'd visited five brothels, and she wouldn't have cared if it meant that he was in the clear. And he is.

It doesn't solve all of her problems. Her stomach roils at the thought of what it will never have.

But it is a step in the right direction. Perhaps she can use it to create a new life, to face her demons properly.

At the very least, come to terms with it all herself.

Life isn't going to be wonderful and perfect. But her husband is not a killer, and it's more than enough for now.

* * *

It's midday when they arrive back at Downton, and Mr. Carson is there to greet the motor. He orders Jimmy to unpack the cases, and Anna loiters for a moment before Lady Mary turns to her with an affectionate roll of her eyes.

"Go and find Bates," she says.

"Thank you, milady," she says, and darts towards the servants' entrance. Her heart pounds in her chest. It will be the first time she's seen him since the uncertainty that attacked her like a vicious cancer.

The bustle of the servants' hall overwhelms her. Hall boys carrying crates, maids hurrying to and fro to set the table for luncheon. Mrs. Hughes emerges from her sitting room.

"Ah, Anna," she says. "There you are! How was London?"

"Insightful," she replies truthfully.

The housekeeper laughs. "I can't imagine that there's much insight to be had in London unless it's news about which poor man Lady Mary is favouring this week. Any clues?"

"None whatsoever. She saw both when she was down there."

She'd lamented that it was a pity that she couldn't try the men out in other ways with a raise of her eyebrows, leaving Anna in no doubt as to what she'd been alluding to. At the time, she had felt a dull ache in her chest, but now, recalling the words, she feels warm and pink. Human again.

Mrs. Hughes sighs. "Well, I'm sure she'll make her mind up one day."

"Yes," Anna says, then switches the subject. "Have you seen Mr. Bates around at all?"

"Eager to see him?" Mrs. Hughes jokes, though there is a touch of relief in her voice. Anna remembers with clarity the beginning of the conversation that had started off this sorry mess. How the distance between them had been noticeable again. Her own failings as a wife. Her smile fades a little, but Mrs. Hughes doesn't seem to notice. "He was upstairs in his lordship's dressing room last thing I knew. He'll be down soon if you want to wait."

Shy, she fumbles with her gloves. "Actually, I thought I might go and find him now. Do you think I'll have time before luncheon?"

Mrs. Hughes seems pleasantly surprised by her answer. "I don't see why not. If you hurry you'll catch him. Go."

She doesn't need further encouragement. Without another word, she dashes past her, almost running headlong into a bemused Thomas.

"Sorry, Mr. Barrow," she pants, but she doesn't wait to hear his sarcastic retort. She takes the stairs two at a time, yanks open the door at the top, hurls herself up to the top of the house. She must look quite mad when she reaches the corridor housing Lord Grantham's dressing room; her face feels hot and sweaty, a stitch sears in her side. But she can't bring herself to care.

At the end of the corridor, a door opens, and – her heart leaps into her throat – there is John. He stops short when he sees her, an expression between joy and wariness flickering across his face, no doubt brought on by her wild-eyed appearance.

"Anna?" he utters.

His soft, dulcet tone breaks her spell, and she throws herself towards him. His cane clatters to the carpet, and he meets her more than halfway. In the next moment they are wrapped tightly in each other's arms. Anna presses her forehead against her husband's chest, breathing in his familiar scent. His hand – _his innocent hand_ – cups the back of her neck and encourages her to tilt her head up. She is greeted by warm chocolate eyes.

"Are you all right?" he asks her.

She grabs at his hand, turns her head so that she can press a kiss into the centre of his palm.

"I am," she says. It's not the complete truth, but it's close enough for now. She presses herself against him again without another word, almost as if she can melt into him, live within his beating heart for the rest of her life. John holds her just as tightly, his lips ghosting her temple as he cradles her close. For the moment, they are the only two people in the world. Nothing else matters.

At length, John pushes her back. Are there tears in his eyes? She blinks, and they are gone.

"Luncheon's nearly ready," he says. "Let's go downstairs."

She doesn't want to give him up, move back into reality. She wants to stay trapped in this moment forever, a carving of entwined lovers, withstanding time for eternity. But she must. Nodding, she disentangles herself with the greatest of efforts, lowering herself to her heels. When had she risen on them, ensured that there was as much contact between their bodies as possible?

John is staring at her with those dark eyes that she can't always quite work out, eyes that are a well-read book that she has forgotten passages of over time. He still has his hand on her waist.

"I'm so glad you're back," he says. There's an intensity there that almost burns her, Icarus too close to the sun. But she cannot resist.

Closing the gap between them once more, she sneaks her arm around his neck and pulls him down to her level. She has a moment to watch as his eyes slide closed before his mouth is on hers.

For the first time in months, there is no hesitancy. Just the exotic press of his lips, the smoky-mint taste she has grown so fond of, the heavy bulk of him against her.

She hums in the back of her throat. For tonight at least, she is home, a weary traveller seeking refuge from the harshness of the world in the reassurance of a familiar port.

It seems to be the thing that breaks him, her sound of contentment. In the next moment he is cupping her face between both of his hands, increasing the pressure of his mouth, breathlessly breaking away for just a moment to tell her that he loves her before she pulls him back to her –

"We were wondering – oh!"

The sound of the exclamation filters into her brain long enough to realise just exactly where they are. With a little breathy gasp she pulls away, spinning around to find Mrs. Hughes averting her eyes. All too acutely she is reminded of the way that her chest is heaving, can feel the heat burning in her cheeks. John's eyes are dark embers. He straightens his jacket. Crinkled from her fingers, she thinks hazily.

"Luncheon's ready," says Mrs. Hughes. She's still not looking at them. "Everyone's waiting."

"We're coming, Mrs. Hughes," says John. "We're very sorry."

Now she does look at them. Her stoic mask is back in place. "I don't know what you mean. I didn't see anything. Now come on, hurry up. The others won't thank you for making them wait."

The two of them set off after the housekeeper at once, trailing her like chastened school children, but she feels the heavy, hot weight of her husband's gaze on her back as she walks in front of him.

Despite the conversation that they need to have, this particular part of their story isn't over yet.

* * *

Before the door even closes behind them, she knows exactly what awaits them. John's eyes are midnight jet in the darkness. His coat whispers as he slides it from his shoulders. She takes a moment to listen to the pounding of her heart.

Then she is on him and there's heat and more urgency than she'd thought she was capable of feeling anymore.

They're stumbling and clawing, panting between sloppy kisses. She has him half-undressed before they even reach the top of the stairs. His clothes lay a lazy path to their destination. She pushes him through the door to their bedroom, fumbling with the button on his trousers. She feels the searing heat radiating from below. Her heart pounds so fast and hard that she thinks she might pass out. She hasn't wanted him like this in so long. Innocence is a powerful aphrodisiac.

His trousers are halfway down his thighs before he manages to pull away from her. Even in the darkness she can see how swollen his lips are. Ravaged.

"Are you sure?" he says. They slow, stop, stand shrouded in darkness. His hand moves to cup her cheek, thumb trailing to smooth over her lower lip. Her eyelids flutter at the sensation, her skin sparking. Her body aches in a way that it hasn't in a long time. She leans up again, nose brushing his for a brief moment.

"I'm sure," she whispers, then closes the gap again.

They move too fast and yet not fast enough, the door firmly closed behind them, sealing them in this room of worship. John's mouth is everywhere, sliding from her collar to the hollow between her breasts, swerving to the sides. She clutches his hair and moans, the sound ringing in the quiet sanctuary. His hands palm her hips, her waist, back again. She pushes him back onto the bed. The springs creak. She moves over him, fisting her hands in his hair. Her knees dig into his sides. Her hair rains down around her as he pulls the pins free. His hairy chest against her smooth one makes her toes curl. Those eyes, soft and worshipping, tingle her skin with desire. Lover's eyes. Her _husband's_ eyes. His hand moves to press flat against her erratic heart. Tender. Nurturing. Familiar.

"You're shaking like a leaf," he says.

"I love you, that's all," she replies.

"I love you too."

He'd been flat on his back but he pushes himself upright, one strong arm coming around her back to hold her steady. She bends in, presses her forehead to his. Neither move for long moments. Silence in the Garden of Eden, Adam and Eve and primitive human need, before the appearance of the snake. Then she shifts, and is brought back to the present by the imploring press of his desire. It's _his_ eyes that flutter this time, and she basks in the throaty moan that escapes his clenched jaw. She moves enough to capture his mouth, fingers trailing and teasing. His own hands move to reciprocate, dancing gracefully across her flesh as it pimples.

And then the heat is back, fire roaring in her veins. Two becoming one mind, one soul. The springs creak as she crushes him into the mattress. The endless kissing is punctuated only by gasps of pleasure, incoherent promises of love. Her thoughts rock in time with her body. Guiltless. His innocent hands caress her, stoking the fire. Innocent, innocent, innocent –

She cries out at the joy of it all.

* * *

Hands play over her still spasming skin in the aftermath. She's nestled in the crook of his left arm. John hovers above her, on his side. His right hand cups the side of her face as he kisses her over and over. He can't seem to get enough of her. She doesn't want him to. Tonight, the extended intimacy of the moment cements reality.

With a final sip of her upper lip, John pulls away from her, though he keeps his hands exactly where they are. She peers up at him, at the dishevelled state of his hair, at the still-fast rise and fall of his chest.

"You're back," he says contentedly.

"_You're_ back," she counters, pretending not to notice his perplexed expression. Because it's true: no longer is she sharing her life, her bed, with a stranger. Just the same John Bates she's always known.

Apparently unable to resist, he moves in close, kisses her again. She likes this side of him. He's always tender and affectionate in the aftermath, but never quite like this. When he pulls away, she keeps her arm around his neck, keeping him right there. He offers her a smile in the darkness, tucking stray strands of hair behind her ear.

"You had me worried, you know," he comments. "When you were in London."

"Oh?" She tries to keep her voice steady.

"You didn't sound at all like yourself. I was very tempted to catch the next train down to see you."

Her heart stumbles in her chest. "You didn't need to do that."

"I wanted to. After…" He swallows, starts again. "After everything that's happened…"

"I know," she says. "I know." Living in a disconnected world, losing herself, him, the demons overtaking her. "But I'm here with you now, I promise. And you're here with me."

"Always," he vows, though there is a shadow of a frown on his face.

No longer does a stranger masquerade in her husband's reassuring bulk. He's transforming before her eyes, the shape shifter pushed out. She stretches in his arm, wriggles until she sits up with him, both of her hands cupping his face as he had done hers earlier, in the upstairs corridor. She takes a moment to drink him in, thumbs stroking.

"What is it?" he whispers.

"Nothing," she says. Pauses for a moment. "Just…I do love you."

"I'm glad to hear it. Now, what do you say to sleeping? We've a long day ahead of us."

"You're right," she agrees. They have got things to discuss tomorrow, when the glow of euphoria fades a little. It's not a conversation for now, after such a visceral, sensual experience. She doesn't want it to be tainted. Instead, she kisses him one last time and settles down. He follows her, pressing his face into her hair and holding her tight around the waist. The first time in weeks. Tonight, she needs him close.

"I did miss you," he murmurs sleepily. His fingers find her wedding back and jiggle it slightly.

_I've missed us,_ she thinks.

* * *

Darkness can be as comforting as a well-loved blanket. It can also be as ravenous as a rabid dog, feasting on rotting thoughts and spreading its disease further. Tonight, she had hoped for the former, with her husband's naked body twined around hers. But of course it is the latter.

Her husband is innocent of the most condemned crime. His hands had not been the ones to take the life from the monster. He isn't staining the fabric of their relationship with its foul blood.

But for all her self-righteousness, she is not innocent either.

The past week, however draining, had provided her with one relief: to channel her anger and grief away from herself into another source. John has borne the brunt of it unknowingly. But now she has nowhere to hide from herself.

She had gone to London with an acidic accusation burning her lips. What right did she have, when she is as much a murderer, stopping any chance of a child of theirs being welcomed into the world? How can she ask John to answer for his sins when she has her own that have been buried deep within the thorned cage surrounding her heart?

John's peaceful breath blows against her ear. His arms are no longer a shelter, but an oppressive noose around her entire body. Tighten it any more and she will suffocate.

She is doing this for his sake. He has suffered too much in his life. She can't bear to see him suffer again. She'll take the secret to her grave. It's for the best, she tells herself, but the shadows dance and jeer.

Darkness is cruel.

* * *

She awakens with a start. When had she slipped into uneasy dreams? She can't recall. But the sun is peeking through the gap in the curtains, dappling John's skin. He still sleeps soundly, his soft snores breaking the quiet. She twists her head, drinks in the sight of the wrinkles feathering his face, etched there by years of trial.

Willing down the lump in her throat, she slips out of the vining of his arms, pushing the sheets back. The cool morning air greets her, and she pads around quietly, searching for her clothes. Some of them are spread around the house; she'll have to go in search of those in a moment.

John stirs as she is slipping into her undergarments. He hums and wipes at his eyes, chasing the sleep away. Then he sits up, sending a drowsy smile in her direction.

"Good morning," he says huskily.

She raises her eyes in the mirror, tries not to stare at his chest. In the harsh light of day he is thrown into bright relief, pale skinned and dark haired. He looks brighter than he has done in months.

"Good morning," she echoes. "How are you feeling?"

He pushes the sheets back, strolls to her side stark naked. He's more confident than she's seen him in a long time.

"I feel wonderful," he murmurs. "Why don't we go back to bed? We've plenty of time yet."

At one time, she would have jumped at the chance, dragging him there before he could wait for a reply. Now she stiffens, remembers the thoughts that had haunted her mere hours before. They won't release her enough to allow her any enjoyment. So she shakes her head and pushes him away.

"Not just now," she says. She refuses to look through the mirror, not wanting to see the confused hurt that she is sure she'll see there after such a marvellous night. He'll be calculating, frightened that she is shrinking back into her spiky shell. Standing, she presses a kiss to his chest before slipping away. John remains motionless for a moment longer before moving to dress himself – as far as he can. She retrieves his underclothes and his shirt and tie. They're creased, but there's no time to press them. He dresses slowly, his expression faraway. She sighs, and touches his cheek.

"We should go," she says. "Later, we need to talk."

"Talk? About what?"

She takes his comb and pomade, completing the task for him. "It doesn't matter. We'll discuss it later."

He nods, but he seems morose. "All right."

She tips his head back. They stare at each other for a moment before she leans in and kisses him. This morning, it tastes of ash.

* * *

The day passes in a haze. The honeymoon period is over, and now she must face reality.

She knows John is curious. She feels his eyes on her whenever she enters a room, boring into her, reading her soul. Just as he had done in the weeks following the ordeal. The truth will come out soon enough.

Before she knows it, they have settled Lady Mary and Lord Grantham for the night, and they retrace the familiar path back to the cottage.

"Would you like some tea?" John asks as they shuck off their outer layers.

She nods her head. "Tea might be nice. Thank you."

It will give them something to do while they discuss London. A laughably domestic scene when the situation is anything but. John finds the kettle while she lights the stove. But she can delay no longer.

"John, can we talk now?" she asks.

He stops in the process of removing cups from the cupboard, fixing her with a wary look. "Of course."

"Shall we sit down?"

"I think I'm all right where I am. What's troubling you?"

She chews her lip, screws up her courage. "I need to speak with you about London."

"All right," he says. Now his expression is flummoxed.

"And what I did there."

"Anna, you're not making any sense."

She doesn't pause for a moment. If she does, she'll lose her nerve. "Just before I left, I overheard a conversation between Mrs. Hughes and Lady Mary. It was about you, and the time you went to York just before the bazaar."

He has the air of a skittish colt, ready to bolt at any moment. He remains silent. She ploughs on.

"Or rather, the time you went to London."

Now he does break, his tone loud and harsh in the quiet. "This is madness."

"No, it's not. And I had to know what you had planned when you went there."

"What I had planned…?"

"Murder," she says.

Neither of them move. She can almost see the cogs turning in his head, putting the pieces together like a difficult puzzle –

When the lightbulb goes off, his face contorts unpleasantly.

"Of course," he says, and venom laces every word. "You thought I'd killed the rapist."

She reels back, the word striking like a snake. "Don't –"

"Please don't insult my intelligence by denying it again," he snaps. "Why else would you be bringing this up?"

"_This_ is the reason why!" she shouts. "You knew and I was terrified that you'd risk everything that we've ever fought for! You told an outright lie to my face!"

"How can you say that when you lied to _my_ face!?"

"I was doing it to protect you!" she shrieks. "I can live with what happened to me, but if anything ever happened to you, I couldn't bear it. I couldn't bear it!"

"And yet you had so little faith in me," he says. "You'd rather believe me a mad dog unable to control its urges!"

"It wasn't like that!" she says furiously. "Stop twisting my words!"

"You twisted mine!"

They're both breathing heavily in the aftermath of their outburst. Anna feels as if she's on the cusp of furious, frightened tears. In all of her imaginings, she hadn't expected it to be anything like this. Who is this stranger in front of her? Where has her husband gone again? Why has he reacted so badly?

John scrubs a hand over his face. "Jesus, Anna." He stares at her. His eyes are the colour of coal. Dark, endless tunnels. His mouth is set in a hard line. "So…so you honestly thought it was me?"

The words cut her to the pulsing wick, sharper than any blade slicing her skin. She wrings her hands. But she won't back down now.

"What did you expect?" she says. "After everything, the way you were acting, _what did you expect?_"

In the silence that echoes with her words, he glares at her. She's never seen that expression on his face before.

"I thought you would trust me," he says quietly. "Isn't that what marriage is supposed to be based on? Love and trust?"

"How can I trust you when you keep secrets from me?" she snaps, though the sly little voice in the back of her mind taunts her. After all John had hit a sore point: she _has_ kept secrets from him in the past, is keeping secrets from him right now…

If John thinks anything, he doesn't say it, merely glares at her. "So why didn't you tell me as soon as you overheard this conversation? Why did you keep it from me and take matters into your own hands? I could have told you myself instead of you sneaking behind my back."

"_Listen to yourself!"_ she screams. "You went behind _my_ back! You went to London and said you went to York! I asked you about it multiple times and you still denied it!"

He takes a deep breath. His voice is laced with ice. "I'm going out."

"What do you mean?"

"I can't be here with you right now." He shakes his head, laughs bitterly. "My wife doesn't trust me. Seems like everything we've shared recently was a lie."

The ice spreads right through her, freezing her heart mid-beat. Before she can stop herself, her hand lashes out of its own volition. The sound of the stinging slap rings in the aftermath.

The second after she's done it, her hands fly to her mouth. John stands there looking as if he's been told that the sky is falling down around him.

What has she done? _What has she done?_

But her mouth doesn't agree, spewing furious words at him as the tears begin to pour down her cheeks.

"You bastard," she says. "Don't you dare say that the things we've shared are lies. Was yesterday a lie? _Was last night?"_

He barks a sour laugh. The place on his cheek where she'd slapped him is an angry red. "I don't know. For all I know you're lying again right now, playing me for a fool."

"Get out," she hisses.

"Don't worry about that, I'm going." His knuckles are white on his cane, and he turns and limps out of the kitchen. He doesn't even bother reaching for his coat, yanking open the door. Cold air blasts in. She stands in the doorway, trying to get herself back under control. The chasm between them yawns endlessly. John steps over the threshold.

"You know," he says bitterly, "I wish you had thought me capable of killing Vera. At least I would have been prepared for this feeling. Why is it any different now? After all…" His eyes burn into her. "Back then, it would have been for you, wouldn't it?"

His words hurt as much as her slap must have done. Without another word he turns and limps away, swallowed by the darkness.

* * *

She sits by the window upstairs, legs curled up underneath her, shawl gripped tight at her chest. The cold air sinks deep into her skin, chilling her to the bone.

She won't move.

John is still out there somewhere.

She wants to scream and rage some more, hurl all the pain and agony she has been bottling up inside her at him, to make him see that _it's not about him_. She wants to pound her fists against his chest, to weep.

To have him hold her.

Because it's not just about her either. The attack has changed both of their lives for good. It will always be there, no matter what comes in the future. No matter how they cope and move past it. It hadn't happened to John, but it _has_. He has to live with it in the same way that she does. For the most part he has been an indispensable part of her healing. She knows she would never have made it without him. The darkness would have swallowed her. His hand in hers, keeping her grounded, had been the only thing that had kept her sane during some of the darkest months.

She won't justify his actions tonight. But she feels a wave of sorrow all the same, shame at her actions. She shouldn't have hit him. He shouldn't have said those things, but she shouldn't have hit him.

Midnight comes and goes. Still there is no sign of him. One o'clock creeps round. Then half past. She drifts into uneasy dreams about the crash of a slap and the slam of a door.

* * *

The creak of the stairs rouses her from her light sleep. She bolts upright at once, her sleepy mind immediately conjuring up fears from the past. For several seconds, she sits stock still in terror.

The door squeaks on its hinges. The scream bubbles –

It's John.

The scream dies before it forms, and she leaps up from her chair. He looks frozen, his skin pale and mottled. She's still angry with him, but the relief that floods her body is undeniable. He's home, safe and sound.

For a moment, the awkward silence is suffocating. Neither of them move to speak.

John is the one who eventually breaks it, sighing heavily.

"I thought you would be asleep by now," he says. "You shouldn't still be up."

"Of course I'm still going to be up. I couldn't go to bed not knowing if you were all right."

It seems to be the right thing to say. In the next moment he crosses the room, pulls her into a fierce embrace.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters. "Anna, I am so, so sorry."

She doesn't want to, but she can't help herself. She melts into his embrace. Her arms come up around him, holding him as tightly as he is holding her, burying her nose in the front of the jacket. It smells of that terrible cold smell, but she doesn't care. He's home.

"It's all right," she says, voice muffled.

"No, it's not. It's not all right by a long shot. You're right, Anna. I was a bloody bastard. I hate myself for the way that I spoke to you. None of this is your fault, and I shouldn't have hurled those accusations at you. You had every right to suspect me, to believe me capable of those things."

"I hate myself for doubting you," she admits. "You're my husband, and I should trust your word. For better, for worse."

"No," he corrects her at once. "No, my darling. I had no right to say those things to you. You've been through so much…"

She doesn't want that line of conversation. Not again. She presses her hand to his mouth, stops his words short.

"You're freezing," she says instead.

His lips quirk, not quite forming a smile. "It was cold out."

"Get out of those clothes at once. It's too late for a bath, but get a basin of hot water. I'll put the bed coals in."

"I don't deserve it."

She resists the urge to snap. "Torturing yourself isn't going to change the things that have happened. It never worked in the past. Now go and do it."

He shuffles off like a chastened schoolboy, and she bustles around the room. It takes her mind off things, gives her the illusion of being helpful. It won't work for long. But for now it's enough.

By the time John is done she's warmed his pyjamas too, and hands them to him before slipping into bed herself. The coals have made their sheets warm as toast, and she burrows into them like a mouse hibernating for the winter. John moves slower. He's holding his right leg stiffly. The cold has made it seize. There's only further proof when he slides into bed but remains on his back. He never does that unless he's in severe pain.

A part of her thinks he deserves it for what he's said tonight. But that's a cancerous part of her, one that she wishes she could cut out.

She combats it by sliding under his arm, pressing her ear to his heart. It thrums. She matches her breathing to its pulses. Silence reigns.

"You were right."

John's voice startles her. She tilts her head. He stares up at the ceiling.

"I was right about what?"

He swallows hard, clenches his jaw. "I wanted to…I wanted to kill him."

The admission shouldn't take her breath away the way it does. He'd said it before, on their disastrous dinner in the Netherby. She'd seen it whenever he'd looked at the monster. Bloodlust.

"I think that's what hurts the most," he continues. "I had no right to be indignant and hurt because on some level it was the truth."

And she realises something too.

"I don't blame you," she says softly. "If someone hurt you…"

What would she do? If she found her husband broken and bleeding, wouldn't she want to make the ones who had put him in that state pay? Hadn't she hated Vera with a fiery passion that had surprised even her when she had discovered the truth about her suicide?

"But you must know I didn't?" His tone is almost begging, and she rushes to quell his fears.

"I know," she says. "I visited Mrs. Hayes and she told me everything. And…and I had some help from some other people. Private investigators. I know you weren't anywhere near the scene that day."

"I did go back to York afterwards," he admits. "I was disappointed, and I spent the rest of the day brooding." He grows quiet. "I wanted to confront the bastard, to let him know that I would never allow you to harm him again, but I didn't see the point, not that day. Not with you in the city too."

"I'm sorry for doubting you," she offers.

He shakes his head. "_I'm _sorry for being a royal prig. I should never have spoken to you like that. I'm glad you hit me. I deserved it. I promise, it'll never happen again."

"I hope that it doesn't. I don't like it when we argue."

"It's not who we are," he agrees. "And I hope you know that I didn't mean it when I said that everything we've shared recently might have been a lie."

"That hurt _me_ the most. After everything…"

"I was hurt and I was cruel in return. I thought I'd buried that part of myself, but I used it to hurt you. I'll never forgive myself for that. Not ever."

"And what's the use of that? Haven't you blamed yourself enough for things in the past?"

He stays silent. She knows even now he tortures himself about that night, how he let her face the darkness downstairs alone. How she paid the price for that. How they both did.

"What we feel for each other isn't a lie," she says. Despite everything, she knows beyond a doubt that it's true. "Last night wasn't a lie. I know we don't…not as often as we used to, but you can't forge those feelings, not for anything in the world."

"You're right. And I hope you know that the intimacy isn't important to me. When you're ready and when you want it, that's the only time _I_ want it."

"I do want it." She does. She aches for a normal life. Wishes it could be so. "I love it when we're like that. Yesterday was very special to me."

He squeezed her tight. "I'm glad. And I am glad that everything is resolved now."

"So am I." Tentatively, she nuzzles into his neck. He presses his palm to the small of her back, drawing her closer.

"So we can start to put the past truly in the past?" he whispers.

She pauses. Can they? Even with her own failings, can they?

"Yes," she says, because she can't answer him in any other way.

At least, they can try.

* * *

Slowly but surely, the weeks crawl past. Not everything is better….but at least there has been some improvements. Anna's own guilt weighs heavily on her mind, but the relief of John being innocent goes a long way in propelling them forward.

They're rebuilding their bond. Strengthening it. On their half-days John takes her out on dates, sometimes to a picture show in Ripon, other times for tea in Thirsk. Even shopping trips to York are on the cards, despite his aversion to it. Every so often he gets permission to take her to dinner in the village. She feels like a princess. Sometimes it makes her feel guilty, overwhelmingly so, and she can't stop the darkness from worming its way into her mind. John always seems to put it down to her memories, and it is partly the truth, but it runs deeper than that. She looks at her husband and sees reflected at her the future that they will never have. All down to her.

Other days it's better. He kisses her and she feels it low, the need to be with him. There are tender encounters in the late afternoon sun, passionate ones in the cloak of darkness.

Ones that make the others raise their eyebrows when they hurry into the servants' hall flushed and unkempt before the day has even started.

It's not the life they'd dreamed of. But, bit by bit, they make it something else. A half-darkness. But there is the promise of sun, at least on some days.

* * *

**A/N:** I don't condone John's reaction at all, but I wanted to look at it from a different angle. _Would_ John feel hurt and betrayed that his wife - who has never faltered even once in her faith in him in all these years - had doubted him? That's been his one constant throughout everything. I'm not quite sure that I did it justice, but I thought it was worth taking a look at. One more chapter to go. Now the question of John's innocence is out of the way, the focus can move back to Anna properly.


	4. His Love Will Conquer

**A/N:** Not entirely happy with the way this has turned out, but time is tight and I want it up before series five starts. Thanks to everyone for the reviews. I worked in a scene that got mentioned in the series five press release, though I don't know how it will appear in the show.

* * *

_4. His Love Will Conquer_

It starts as any other day might. Anna awakens beside her husband, stretching out her limbs.

"Good morning," he says.

"What time is it?"

"Just after five. We've another half an hour before we have to get up to dress."

She groans, burying her face in the pillow. "Not enough time to go back to sleep, then."

"I don't know about that. You've managed it in the past."

She scowls at his teasing, though of course he can't see it. She rolls over to rectify this, and is struck by how handsome he looks. Slowly but surely the years are slipping away, and it suits him. She's glad he's getting back to where he was, even if she still feels as if she's trailing behind at times.

This morning she feels stronger.

Hooking her arms around his neck, she warns, "Stop smiling."

He tilts his head. "And what if I won't?"

"Then I'll make you."

"And how are you going to do that?"

"Like this," she mutters, and leans in to capture his mouth.

It does work, most spectacularly. And, Anna thinks afterwards as she lies there panting for breath, a most enjoyable experience for both.

* * *

The morning continues to go well. She's rushed off her feet, but it's a pleasant kind of bustle, her body relaxed and happy from the early morning activities. John seems to be in just a good a mood. She's sure she even hears him whistling when she passes by his lordship's dressing room.

But just like with everything else, Thomas just has to ruin everything.

He strolls into the servants' hall as they're taking a quiet tea together; everyone else appears to be preoccupied with other tasks. She ought to have sensed his confrontational manner from the moment he entered. His eyes are dark and sly, boring into them.

"All alone?" he says.

John doesn't even bother looking up from the page of the book he is reading. "No, there's a roomful."

The under butler's mouth twists. The snake rears its head to strike. "I'm surprised you _are_ alone. There was a time not too long ago when Anna couldn't even bear standing in the same room as you, never mind having tea with you. And let's not forget the fact that she moved out of your home. So don't come all high and mighty with me when your life is far from perfect."

With trepidation, she watches as John's knuckles turn white. The distant sounds from the kitchen are the only ones that can be heard.

"Don't push me, Thomas," he growls.

"That's Mr. Barrow to you, Mr. Bates," he sneers. He turns towards Anna. "Come on, Anna, we've all seen what you've been like with him recently. Can't say I blame you much. If you're not in love with him anymore, well, it's not like he hasn't had any dealings with divorce proceedings in the past."

John pushes himself to his feet, the chair scraping along the cold floor.

"I won't tell you again," he says.

Anna lays her hand on his sleeve, her heart beginning a frantic drumroll in her chest. "Mr. Bates…."

He ignores her, his cold eyes staring the other man down. If Thomas feels any disquiet then he does not show it, taking another drag on his cigarette.

"Now, now, Mr. Bates," he says silkily. "There's no need to get frustrated. It's not my fault if your wife prefers gallivanting with other men. It's not my fault she preferred the company of Lord Gillingham's valet to you –"

The next few seconds pass in a flash, and yet seem to drag on for a lifetime. John remains stock-still for a heartbeat. And then he lunges. Anna gasps as her husband barrels into the under butler, the pair of them crashing into the wall.

"John!" she shrieks.

If her husband hears her, he pays her no mind. Snarling, he buries his first in the under-butler's stomach. She watches in horror as Thomas groans, but then he begins to fight back –

Scrambling to her feet, she flies around the table towards the scuffling pair. Now is not the time for fear. Her husband's grunts fill her ears. She can't listen to his pain. Not her John.

Small and slight she may be, but she takes a deep breath and looks for a gap. At the corners of her memories the flashbacks linger deviously, memories of blows raining down on her, driving the breath from her body, and pain, pain, pain –

She narrows her eyes and pushes herself between them. John stops instantly, clearly wary of hurting her, and Anna pushes her back against his front, quivering. Thomas pants through his mouth, pulling at his livery. His nose is bloody, staining his starched white shirt.

"You bastard," he says.

"I warned you," John wheezes. She turns her head to regard him. A bruise is blossoming on his cheek.

"_Both _of you stop it!" she says furiously. "God, stop acting like petty children!"

John glowers over her head, remains silent.

"He shouldn't say those things about you," he mutters.

"I don't care what he says! You know I love you, you know that none of it is true."

"Is _that_ really true?" Thomas sneers.

Anna rounds on him. "And you! Keep your nose out of matters that don't concern you! Next time I'll smack you myself!"

Thomas mutters under his breath, wiping his nose on the back of his hand.

"Go and clean yourself up," she says. "And you" she adds, jabbing her husband in the chest, "sit yourself back down. _I'll_ clean you up."

"Don't think I won't be reporting this to Mr. Carson," spits Thomas.

"Do your worst," John retorts.

With one last contemptuous look, Thomas storms out of the hall. Anna waits for the inevitable cries of shock from the kitchen staff, but nothing changes. He must be going to his room to lick his wounds. She won't complain, not if it means the incident can be contained for a little while longer.

"Wait there," she says. "I'll fetch a cloth and some water. It'll soothe you."

She doesn't wait to hear his reply, moving down the corridor towards the kitchen. It's a scene of organised chaos, as usual, but Mrs. Patmore notices her.

"What's wrong, Anna?" she asks.

"I just need a cloth and some water."

"Whatever for?"

She shakes her head. "It doesn't matter."

"Well, help yourself. Just don't get in our way!"

She manages a tight smile, collects the supplies. Returning to the servants' hall, she finds John back in his seat, his head tilted forward. She resumes her seat beside him and jerks his head up with more force than is necessary after she has dipped the cloth into the water.

"What do you think you were doing, lashing out like that?" she hisses, pressing the cloth to his face. "You know Mr. Carson is going to be absolutely furious!"

"I don't care," he says stubbornly. "Thomas had no right saying those things."

"He doesn't know anything!"

"But he suspects _something_! Didn't you see the way he was smirking, egging me on?"

"And like a fool you rose to the bait."

John scowls, but he doesn't say anything else. Anna bites at her lip as she dabs at his cheekbone.

"That's going to bruise, you know," she admonishes. "Everyone is going to know."

"Look, I'm sorry, Anna. What else do you want me to say?"

"Nothing. But you have to stop letting that temper of yours govern your rationality. Thomas is a slimy sneak, but you've got to be the bigger man. You'll do yourself no favours."

They remain silent while Anna finishes nursing his hurts. Internally, she sighs. Just what will she do with this daft beggar? For all of his stoicism in the past, he seems to have a difficult time concealing his emotions now. She doesn't know if it's a good thing or not.

"There," she says at length. "All better." She places the bowl on the table. Tentatively, he reaches across to take her hand. She lets him, closing her eyes at the feel of his skin against hers.

She wishes it wasn't like this. The continuous struggle. Forever fearing that someone will discover her secret, exploit them. Thomas is a constantly skulking shadow, sniffing out scandal like a bloodhound. She shivers. He's not stupid. He knows that something has been amiss. What if he starts spreading things? It doesn't bear thinking about. She's had enough of those curious, sympathetic looks. And the way that Miss Baxter appraises her is disconcerting. Almost as if she knows exactly what has transpired in the last years. It's a constant, dreadful cycle.

"What are you thinking about?"

John's voice breaks through her increasingly miserable thoughts, and she lifts her eyes to find herself fixed with one of those looks that goes right through her soul. She traces her fingertip along the grain in the table, unable to maintain his gaze.

"Not a lot," she says. "Just…just sometimes I wish that we could move away from here. Somewhere no one knows us or our story. Somewhere where we could be Mr. and Mrs. Bates and live our life." Not without the shadows. Shadows follow everyone. But she would be free of the relentless feeling of being surrounded by menace.

Never again would she have to enter the scene of the crime.

"What's stopping us?" John's voice is cautious. "We could always contact Mr. and Mrs. Hayes, see if they're in a position to consider buying now. We could pick up the idea of the little hotel again, if it's something that you still want. Somewhere near the sea, perhaps. Scarborough, or Whitby."

She mulls over his words. A fresh start in a strange place. The idea sounds more and more appealing the more she thinks about it.

And then, the killer blow.

He continues, "And you know what they say about sea air. It leads to a healthy and happy life. I think we're deserving of one of those. Some place nice and peaceful where we can grow old surrounded by our children."

Like a deadly arrow, the words pierce her straight through the heart. She feels the colour drain from her face in mere seconds. In mere seconds, everything has changed.

John clearly senses that he has said something wrong, for his eyes widen in alarm, his spare hand reaching out to cup her cheek.

"Anna? What's wrong?"

She jerks back from his touch as if he'd burned her, almost falling out of her chair in her desperation to put as much distance between them as possible.

"Anna?" he questions. There's a frightened glimmer in his eyes as he pushes himself to his feet too, reaching out but stopping short, as if an invisible barrier is between them.

"Leave it alone," she chokes.

"But –"

"I said leave it!" Her voice is shrill and panicked, and he holds his hands up in a gesture of surrender, though he is wild-eyed with confusion. She takes deep, shuddering breaths as her eyes fill with tears. Not a mention of children. She could have handled anything but that. But hearing him say the words, express a need for something that she can never give him…

Stifling a sob, she turns and flees from the hall.

* * *

Panic swirls inside her for the rest of the day. It makes her clumsy. Lady Mary scolds her. She barely pays any attention. All she can think about is her reaction. How could she have been stupid enough to let weakness show? Why had she been unable to maintain her indifferent mask? John knows that there's something wrong now, and she knows he won't rest until he knows the truth. Fear settles in the pit of her stomach. What lie can she feed him? How can she make him trust her when their trust has been shattered? She stares at herself through Lady Mary's mirror. Pale faced and sickly. Haunted eyes. It's as if the months have been stripped away and she's that vulnerable victim once more, frightened and alone.

During dinner, everyone is intrigued by the tense atmosphere between John and Thomas, at the bruises on each of their faces. John remains quietly dignified and Thomas says nothing either, though she's sure that he'll spread his poison as soon as they're gone. Mr. Carson's expression is thunderous, and she's in no doubts that he's had the two men in his office for a severe talking to. No doubt that Lord Grantham will have to be called on. Dread fills her. If John gets into trouble…

The notion doesn't seem to be bothering her husband, however. He sits across from her, his calculating gaze searing. He isn't going to let it go. Like in the days following the attack, his stare burns a hole through to her very soul, leaving her raw and pulsing. The metallic sound of the cutlery against the plates is overwhelming. Everyone casts little surreptitious glances every now and then, whispering behind their hands –

She pushes her chair back from the table, almost knocking it over in her haste. For a split second she is frozen and powerless, but then her eyes meet John's and it jolts life back into her limbs. The murmurs turn into full blown exclamations as she turns and flees the room. Her feet carry her towards Mrs. Hughes' sitting room, a place of salvation, a place to hide. She closes the door behind her and slides down the side of the cabinet, bringing her knees up to her chest, trying to curl herself into as small a ball as possible. She's been in this very same spot before. Had crawled here with a split lip and a ringing head and the worst pain stabbing under her torn dress. And Mrs. Hughes had found her in here, howling like a baby, unable to process just what had burned her golden life and made it black and bitter as ash –

"Anna, my God!"

Mrs. Hughes' voice startles her, and she whirls around in a blind panic. The housekeeper closes the door behind her, crouches down beside her. She seizes her hands and shakes her.

"Breathe with me, Anna," she says firmly. "Come on now."

In that moment she realises just what shallow, quick breaths she is taking, barely drawing in any oxygen at all. She finds Mrs. Hughes' kind eyes and tries to do as instructed, tries to match her inhalations and exhalations with the older woman's.

"That's right," Mrs. Hughes says encouragingly, "just like that. Calm down, my dear."

Eventually she gets her breathing under control, and Mrs. Hughes smooths her hair back.

"What happened?" she asks.

Anna knows that she can't escape without telling her something, but she can't confess the truth. The lies slip like honey off her tongue. "It's about earlier. Mr. Barrow…he was goading Mr. Bates about the time Mr…Mr. Green was here, and it's triggered the memories off again. I'm so sorry, Mrs. Hughes."

The housekeeper's gaze has softened, and she unexpectedly envelopes her in a motherly embrace. "Oh, my dear, I'm so sorry. I'll have a word with Mr. Carson, make it clear that Mr. Bates isn't to blame. I won't allow Mr. Barrow to get away with such comments. And you must go home right now, get yourself sorted out. I'll see to Lady Mary myself."

She knows she ought to protest, insist that she's fit to work, but a part of her whispers that if she slips away now, she'll avoid her husband. She can avoid a difficult conversation. She won't be able to run forever, but for tonight…

"Thank you, Mrs. Hughes," she whispers. "Please tell Mr. Bates where I've gone."

"Nonsense."

"Excuse me?"

"Do you honestly believe I'd let you out into the dark night all alone? You're not going anywhere without Mr. Bates, my girl."

Her shelled heart cracks. "But –"

"I won't listen to any more. Mr. Bates is standing outside right now, beside himself with worry. He'll escort you home then come back to see to his lordship."

What choice does she have? Numb, she nods, and Mrs. Hughes leads her back into the corridor. True enough, John paces back and forth, his cane clacking on the flagstones. He rushes towards her when he sees her.

"Anna, are you all right?" he gasps, reaching out to cup her face. She flinches away, pretends not to notice the terror on his face.

"I'm all right," she says.

"Take her home, Mr. Bates," says Mrs. Hughes. "She's had a bit of an evening."

"Come on," John says softly. "Let's get you into bed."

Mrs. Hughes colours delicately, clears her throat, and makes her excuses. John bundles her into her coat as if she's a helpless child. She lets him.

"Anna –" he begins.

"No," she says harshly, then gets herself under control. "Not yet."

Slowly, he nods, then escorts her out of the door, his hand on her back.

* * *

They make the journey home in dead silence. Anna keeps her gaze trained on the ground so that she doesn't have to see her husband's face. She's afraid of what she'll find there.

John unlocks the front door, stepping aside to allow her to pass before him. She sheds her outer layers, moving up the stairs before John is even through the door.

"Anna, wait."

His voice freezes her to the spot, and she closes her eyes as she answers him. "What is it, John? I'm very tired."

"We need to talk."

"I've told you, not just yet. You need to get back to work. You're in enough trouble as it is."

For a moment he doesn't move, and she fears that he'll insist on staying anyway. But he heaves a great sigh.

"All right," he says. "But when I get back…"

His words linger. She doesn't turn.

"If that's what you want," she says. She has no intention of having that conversation tonight. She'll feign sleep when he returns home, then slip away before he rises in the morning. Like after that awful night. It will give her time to get her thoughts settled, to choose the most believable tale.

The door closes behind her, and she is alone.

* * *

The front door squeaking on its hinges foretells her husband's return. She burrows down beneath the sheets and closes her eyes tight, trying to regulate her breathing. It seems like an age before she hears John outside the bedroom door. Light flickers as he lights a candle, but she keeps her eyes shut. She listens to the sounds of his night time ritual, the washing at the basin, the soft sounds of him hanging up his livery, the whisper of his night clothes against his skin. She remains still as he clambers into bed beside her, slipping an arm around her, pressing them flush. His body is warm and reassuring despite everything. He presses a soft kiss to the side of her neck. She thinks that's the end of it.

But it's not.

"Anna, I know you're not asleep."

The words make her stiffen – her biggest mistake. In the next moment he's easing her over gently. She has no choice but to open her eyes. His soft smile greets her.

"I've watched you sleep and listened to your breathing a thousand times over," he says. "You can't fool me that way, Anna Bates."

She remains silent. He encourages her to sit up. She does so, pulling the sheets tight around her, as if it will keep everything at bay. He finds her hand, takes it. For long seconds neither of them speak. John is the one to break it.

"Tell me what this is about," he says.

"It's nothing. What Thomas said, it took me back –"

"That isn't it." John's voice doesn't lose its tenderness. "I'm not saying that what that slimy little rat said didn't affect you, but it's more than that. You seemed all right until we were talking."

"Looks can be deceiving –" she tries, but he shakes his head.

"I know you're lying to me," he says. There isn't any accusation in his tone; it's simply matter-of-fact. Gently, he cups her cheek, tilts her head up. "You know how I always know when you're lying to me? You can't look me in the eye. You drop your gaze as if you're ashamed, or as if you're frightened that I'll read the truth in it. Please don't lie to my any more, Anna. I love you very much. It's time to stop with the lies. They'll only destroy us in the end. I want what we had before."

"Things can't be the same as before, don't you understand?" she snaps, but he doesn't rise to her. "Why can't you leave it alone?"

"For the same reasons you wouldn't leave London alone, I imagine," he says. "It's driving me mad with worry. And you are unhappy. Knowing that you're in pain is the greatest pain for me. I told you once before: if I can do anything to make you feel better then I won't hesitate. You're in pain now. Let me know whatI can do."

"You can't do anything," she chokes, and is ashamed when the tears begin to roll. He brings her forward, kisses each one away.

"I disagree," he whispers.

She wants to hate him for insisting, but she can't. Not her John. And part of her wants to share her agony, to not be the only one torn to pieces.

"Let me help you," he whispers again.

And she breaks. Sobs openly and wretchedly, for all the times they'll never have. The ghost of their baby hovers above them, like a tormented spirit caught between worlds. John's flummoxed and horrified expression is only visible for a few seconds before he seizes her in his arms, cradles her head tight to his chest. Her own arms come up around him of their own accord, and she weeps bitterly. His quiet murmurs are unintelligible over her sorrow, and even his steady heartbeat does nothing to comfort her. John is patient with her, though, not pressing her any more until the cries finally begin to peter out. She feels his lips against her temple and sits back slowly.

"I'm sorry," she sniffs.

"Never be sorry, my darling. Not you. Now please, tell me what's wrong."

She takes a deep breath to gather herself. She can't bear to look him in the eye even now, doesn't want to see the life fade and know that she's responsible for it.

"Do you remember a while back now, when we planned a picnic on our half day?"

"I think so." He sounds puzzled for a moment before his tone clears. "You went to the village and Mrs. Johnson was cruel."

"That's just it," she says. "It wasn't Mrs. Johnson at all. I never even saw her that day. I went to see Doctor Clarkson instead."

"Doctor Clarkson?" John's eyes widen. "Why?"

Anna chokes on another sob. "A part of me thought I might be pregnant, and I went to see him to confirm it."

"But you…weren't?" John's tone is broken, and it slashes her heart open.

"No, I wasn't," she whispers. "And he told me…he told me…"

The sobs wrack her body again, but John's hands find her cheeks and cup her face gently.

"Calm down," he tells her. "I'm right here with you. Right here."

And there's nothing left to do but say the words, to get them out in a rush.

"He told me that I can't have children."

Silence rings in the wake of her confession. She closes her eyes, desperate not to see his face. To black out the agonised, accusatory pain. The blame. But he hooks his index finger under her chin. Forces her to lift her head.

"Anna, look at me."

She doesn't want to. Evert fibre of her being revolts against the idea. And yet she can't deny him. Tears building all over again, she opens her eyes. John stares at her, but there is no malicious condemnation behind his eyes. His too are filled with tears, and a powerful sadness.

"Is that true?" he asks.

She can't answer him with words. It's too painful. So she nods. He takes a harsh, shuddering breath.

"Oh, my darling," he says.

His response breaks a dam within her. Anger and confusion and devastation battle for dominance, tearing her open from the inside. He should be blaming her. His blame would be easier to deal with than his sympathy. Still, she can't prevent herself sagging into his arms as he pulls her close, holding her tight against his chest. He doesn't say any more. She doesn't want to know what thoughts are running through his head. His shirt is being saturated with her tears. Too many tears.

And then the worst thing.

"I'm sorry," he offers.

"Don't," she cries. "Don't you dare say that."

"But you've been put through so much heartbreak…"

"Stop it! I don't want to hear you say it! It's my fault too, don't you understand!? It's my fault too!"

"Now listen here," he says, and his voice is low and fierce. "I never want to hear you blaming yourself again, do you hear me? _None _of this is your fault. It's all him. All of it."

"But I can't give you children now! If I'd…I'd fought _harder_…"

He presses her head back against his chest, and she resumes her sobbing. "Stop thinking like that."

"It's true! I couldn't stop him, I…"

"No, _he_ was the one who did this, who…who _forced_ you. You are _not_ to blame for his actions. It was all _him_." His voice is bitter and hard. She shrinks back a little from it, but he comes back to her. "Have you thought of something?" he prompts softly. "Have you ever considered…that it might not be your body that doesn't want children?"

"Of _course_ it's me," she chokes. "Doctor Clarkson told me himself, there's a growth and scar tissue…" She can't say any more, swallowing hard as the tears prickle again.

"Doctor Clarkson has been wrong in the past. Perhaps he's wrong now."

"Don't try and make me feel better John, don't you dare."

"All I'm saying is that he made huge errors where Mr. Matthew was concerned. And…and we hadn't conceived before…before all that. Perhaps it's down to _me_. But maybe there's something we can do. Perhaps we can get a second opinion. Or visit a fertility clinic, there are plenty of those in London –"

Something inside her snaps, and she pounds her fists against his chest, furious with him, furious with herself. "Stop it! Stop it! Stop making it about you!"

He takes her beating silently, hands loose by his sides, waiting for the wave of anguish to pass. Only when she collapses, weeping, against his chest does he move to hold her tight against him. She has no strength left in her to fight, simply sags against him and lets loose every tiny, pent up emotion she's been keeping locked inside herself. She cries until she has nothing left. He kisses her hair, trailing his fingers up and down her back. She's tired, so very, very tired.

"Don't you understand?" she whispers. "We can never have children. We're never going to have the family we've always dreamed of."

"And don't you understand?" he murmurs. "I don't care. I wanted children, yes, I won't deny it. But I want you and our life together more than anything else in the world. I love you. I could never be unhappy as long as I have you."

"But –"

Gently, he eases her away. She has no choice but to look into his soft, hazel eyes. They radiate love and warmth. They radiate truth. He smooths his thumb under her eye, wiping away sticky residue from her tears.

"I love you," he repeats. "Exactly as you are, with or without children."

Her lip wobbles as she tries to contain her emotion. Why hasn't she cried enough tears for a lifetime? How can she still find more? Her head feels woozy and her nose is running, but John crushes her back against him and murmurs sweet nothings into her hair.

All of her shame is out in the open. Once again, she's failed in her mission to protect him.

But there's also a sense of intense abandon. A freedom in her anguish. The last barrier between them has dissolved. There's nothing keeping them apart now. He doesn't see her as a failure. He still loves her, wants her. She squeezes him tighter and feels him respond in kind. Life has tested them time and time again, but they're still here. Maybe they really are unbreakable. Maybe there's hope.

With everything finally out in the open, perhaps they really can get on with their lives. It can be dangerous to cut out a cancer, but she thinks that it's worth the risk. Better to have the chance of a full life than the inevitable slow and painful death.

* * *

She feels awkward for the next few days, shy, as if she's learning herself all over again. Learning that she doesn't always have to be the strong one. That her husband is there for her. All she needs to do is lean on him and use his strength. He's proven time and time again that his shoulders are broad enough to support anything.

The emotions come and go. Anger at herself, relief that John doesn't blame her for anything. And, finally, happiness at the belief that they _can _work things out, step by step.

One night, when they're lying tangled together in the heat of lovemaking's end, John presses a kiss to her hairline and murmurs, "What do you really think to the idea of that little hotel?"

She shifts so that she can see his face a little better, all dark-eyed, frail hope. She remembers her words from the servants' hall. A fresh start where no one knows them. A new life together. Another shot at happiness where it doesn't need to be reined in and muted.

She winds her arms around his neck, kisses him deeply. She doesn't need to answer him with words, but she does anyway.

"I think it's time," she says.

* * *

Plans move quickly. John goes to see the Hayes family again. This time, he returns with good news. Together, they start to sort out their prospects. Nothing in Skegness. A couple of promising ones in Scarborough. One in Whitby. They look over the papers, visit each one on half-days. They make a choice between them, settling on one of the manageable properties in Scarborough, the nearest location to Downton. She doesn't want to cast off entirely, not when she has people like Mrs. Hughes there. John understands that.

When they hear that their offer has been accepted, it's time to put in their notices.

The news seems to come as a shock to everyone. Clearly, with the absence of a family, everyone had assumed that they would stay in service for the rest of their lives. But it's not a real career for a married couple, where husband and wife barely get to spend any time together outside the working hours. During times in the past there had been nothing that Anna had been more grateful for, but those days are mostly behind her now. For the first time in a long time, she wants to grab any happiness that she can, and sharing her life with her husband will go a long way to achieving that.

His lordship is morose when the news is broken, John tells her. The two have a shared history that even she does not know the full extent of. No doubt it will be hard for the both of them to say goodbye and cast off. There is no question about who will replace him. Mr. Molesley is given the opportunity to rise to his former position, although, John says with a nostalgic smile, his lordship would rather he stay.

Lady Mary is equally sad to see her go. The two women have almost grown up together on the different sides of the social divide, have shared things that only true friends would share. They have been there for each other more times than it's possible to count. Anna will miss her mistress' no nonsense ways, her steady council. Like her husband and his lordship, their bonds have been forged by wars and battles. Not in the same way. But they've navigated countless storms together and made it out alive.

It's Mrs. Hughes who gives her the most fond and sentimental goodbye, however.

"You've grown up under my charge," she says, misty-eyed and maternal. "And I couldn't be more proud of the woman you've become, Anna. I know times have been trying in the last few years, but I truly believe that you and Mr. Bates have something worth fighting for."

"You're right, Mrs. Hughes," she agrees. "We're really going to fight for the future now. I promise."

"And you must come back to visit sometime. Don't be strangers. You and Mr. Bates will always be welcome in this house."

"Thank you. And when we're up and running, you should come and stay with us. See if you can slip away for a few days."

Mrs. Hughes laughs. "I'll have to see what I can do. God knows that having a break from the relentless work would be very nice."

It's decided that Miss Baxter will pick up her duties when the leaving date arrives until a suitable replacement is found and trained. Anna worries that she is putting on the other woman, but Miss Baxter merely offers her a smile and quietly says that she doesn't mind doing a bit of extra work.

Every day, the leaving date creeps closer and closer. Their nights are filled with packing up their belongings, ensuring that they have everything boxed that they wish to take from their first home. Anna knows she'll miss the cottage. It was the first place to be truly theirs, where they could close the door and be away from prying eyes. She runs her hand fondly over the covers of their bed. The first marital bed, where so many happy – and racy – moments have taken place.

But there have been moments of heartbreak and anguish too.

As if he can sense what she's thinking, John sidles up behind her, wrapping his arms around her and encouraging her away. She leans into his touch, her pillar of strength.

The morning comes, and their fresh start begins.

* * *

The breeze sneaks in through the window. Anna sighs and rolls over onto her other side. She is greeted by cold sheets, and sits up. She finds John at the other side of the room, slipping his tie around his neck.

"Good morning," he says, catching her eye through the mirror. "Finally decided to join me?"

"Very funny," she grumbles, flopping back down. "Why don't you come back and join me here?"

"I can't," he says. "The Tamworths are leaving this morning, and the Joneses are arriving. Someone has to be there to see to them all."

"Couldn't the lads?" she asks, but she's not really serious; Henry and Peter, two of the local boys, take care of the night shift, and will be wanting to head off home.

"You can stay here a bit longer if you'd like," says John. "I can manage without you if you want to get a bit more sleep. We didn't manage much last night after all."

She blushes to her roots, but pushes the covers back all the same. "No, that's all right. I'll come and help you. We're supposed to be a team, after all."

"Perhaps we could take a walk to the beach later, have a stroll along the promenade."

"This evening, perhaps. I've got a few errands to run, and I promised to look in on old Mrs. Howard."

"All right. We'll slip away after dinner."

She nods. He pads towards her, slips his arm about her waist. She tilts her head back, offering her mouth to be kissed. He takes her unspoken invitation meshing his mouth against hers. It's harder to let him go when they part again, but she does, seeing him out of the door with a smile.

It's promising to be a very good day.

* * *

All things considered, leaving has been good for them. The darkness still lingers, but with the bright sun it's difficult to see. She's not fool enough to think that it will disappear without a trace, but it doesn't control their lives anymore. They are the masters of their own paths.

Part of her knows that lifting the final veil of what had been consuming her mind has gone a long way with that. They've built their trust back up. They can still be happy. Facing a burden alone is a terrifying prospect. Sharing that burden with a trusted soulmate makes it easier to bear.

In some ways, it makes it miraculously insignificant.

They walk along the promenade together, arm in arm. The sun is just beginning to set, casting a warm orange glow over everything. Anna cranes her neck so that she can see her husband's face. He looks serene, at peace with the whole world. His forearms are tanned, his face has caught the sun. These surroundings suit him. He looks younger, walks taller, has more confidence. Towards the end, Downton had started to feel like a prison. Now they have escaped their jailer.

"Anna, are you all right?"

She blinks as she realises that they have come to a stop. John leans against the railing, searching her face with a slight frown on his own. She smiles – a genuine one.

"I'm all right," she says. "I was just thinking."

"Happy thoughts?"

"Thoughtful ones. I was thinking about Downton, and how glad I am that we're here now."

He dips his head to press a kiss to her cheek, and she laughs when he bumps his head against the rim of her hat.

"So am I," he says. Together, they turn to gaze across the sea, at the way the rays of the sun catch the waves and make them sparkle.

Seemingly oblivious to the rigid rules of propriety, John steps behind her. She leans against his chest as he slips his strong arms around her waist, his hands coming to rest on her stomach. She slips hers on top of his, keeping them in place.

Very glad indeed.


End file.
